


Inappropriate Workplace Behavior

by ADeedWithoutaName



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Feeding, M/M, Stuffing, Weight Gain, unrelated wincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 09:32:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3687198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ADeedWithoutaName/pseuds/ADeedWithoutaName
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is gaining weight.  He attributes this to his metabolism slowing down as he gets older, and his sedentary job - answering phones isn't very demanding.  He's decided to get rid of the extra pudge, but that would be a lot easier if his boss weren't paying so much special attention to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inappropriate Workplace Behavior

**Author's Note:**

> So, I really like this one, for whatever reason. Even though it's long and I really have no idea just what the hell is going on.
> 
> Fun fact: when I set out to write this, it called for a more manipulative, malicious Dean, and a much more clueless Sam. But I just couldn't do that. Sam's smart, he figures stuff out, and apparently I'm just incapable of writing Wincest that doesn't have both boys genuinely caring about each other.

His shirt had come untucked again.

Sam mumbled a curse, shoving away from his desk and pushing himself up in his chair. His belt was digging into the tender skin of his stomach, scratching and making it sting, and he knew that he'd have a raw red line around his waist by the end of the day. Just like he'd had at the end of every other day this week.

He shoved the hem of his banana-yellow shirt (they just couldn't have come up with a more humiliating color to stick all of them in) down into his pants. It didn't go very far. There'd been about six inches of extra fabric when he'd first gotten the uniform, a little less back when he'd been making fierce use of the company gym and his pecs had gotten slightly larger, and now there was one. Maybe it was even less than that. He hadn't exactly measured. He tugged frustratedly at his shirt, but there was no way that it was going down any further, and he was aware of that. He was also aware of the fact that it wasn't going to stay tucked in for longer than ten minutes.

"Again?" Ian asked, leaning back in his chair so that he could see around the wall of Sam's downgraded cubicle. "Geez. That's, like, ten times now, and it's barely nine-thirty."

"Yeah, I know." Grabbing the edge of his desk, Sam angrily jerked himself back in. That edge pressed into him. It hadn't used to. "Shut up."

"Hey, hey, hey," Ian said, voice placating. Which just needled Sam even more, of course. "Don't be so hostile; I'm not trying to make fun of you, trust me."

Sam grunted, glaring at the screen of his computer, where an Excel spreadsheet was open so that he could keep track of his callers (new policy). He knew he wasn't being teased. Actually, so far, nobody on his floor had teased him at all. Ian definitely didn't deserve to be snapped at, but he couldn't help it. He was uncomfortable, he was embarrassed, he was hungry and it was three hours until lunch - he just wasn't in a good mood.

And he hadn't been for the entirety of this week, which was only contributing to his current funk.

"You thought about asking the Supplies people for a bigger shirt?" Ian asked, breaking Sam out of his thoughts. "Or, hey, maybe just a...bigger uniform in general?"

"I don't need one," Sam replied, doing his absolute best to remain civil. Ian was an okay guy, and considering that they worked right next to each other, it wouldn't be a good idea to piss him off. "It still fits just fine."

"Okay, it fits..." Sam heard the doubt in his voice and gritted his teeth. "But doncha think that you'd be more comfortable with a bigger size?"

"'M trying to work." Sam folded his arms on his desk, and stared at today's section of the spreadsheet until he heard Ian's chair roll back up to his own desk. His excuse was a flimsy one, since he'd barely had five calls this morning. It was a slow day, which would have normally made him ecstatic. He had time to read, or surf the web, or work on his resume, because Hell would be weathering snowstorms before he admitted that the was going to spend the rest of his life in this crappy job.

But nothing was normal today, just like it hadn't been for this whole freaking week, because he couldn't focus on a single thing besides his own body.

His shirt hadn't been so unwilling to stay tucked into his pants last week, which made him suspect that he'd gained a pound or two (and, consequently, a couple of inches) over the weekend. Not all that surprising, when he really thought about it: it'd been three days, the company doctor had noticed that one of his knees was swollen at a recent checkup and told him to stay off of his feet as much as he could so that the possible sprain could heal, and...there had been one other thing, which Sam regarded with bitterness and suspicion despite how pleased he'd been by it several months ago, when it'd first started. Those three facts meant that he had spent three days doing nothing but resting up in his cramped apartment. And eating. Mostly eating.

He was really despising himself for that now, as he rubbed a hand over his face. Just like he had already been despising himself for every other weekend that he'd spent in exactly the same way.

Sam's stomach growled, and he winced, hoping that no one had heard him, but it didn't seem like it. He was starving. The vending machine was less than thirty feet away from him, in the break room, but he'd learned early on that there was just no room in his budget for that thing. He was only making a dollar and twenty cents above minimum wage right now, since he'd been with the company less than a year and the recession was still in full swing, and he needed every cent to keep his lights on and his water running.

He tried to ignore the hunger. Swiping an exasperated tongue over his lips, he leaned forward and reached for his keyboard. Cool, stale office air hit the small of his back as his shirt slipped right out for, according to Ian, the eleventh time that day.

Sam exhaled forcefully through his nose, shoving himself to his feet. It was time to take drastic measures. He didn't exactly make a habit of carrying safety pins around in his bag, but maybe someone had left a couple in the bathroom that he planned on heading to, and he could use those to keep the hem of his shirt where it belonged. And even if there weren't any (which he was expecting), he could at least figure out a better way of tucking it in. All he had to do was make it through the rest of today, and then he'd have another weekend ahead of him to figure out the complete mess that his waist had somehow become.

Sam tapped Ian on the shoulder as he walked past him. "I'm heading to the bathroom. Mind keeping an eye on my phone while I'm gone?"

"Sure thing," Ian replied. There was no mention of a larger shirt, which made Sam feel a little warmer towards the other man - but he couldn't stop himself from rolling his eyes at the porn site that was blatantly pulled up on Ian's screen. They had different ways of spending free time.

The bathroom was empty. It was too early for people to be killing time until their lunch break rolled around, and too late for them to be getting rid of their first few cups of coffee. Sam, who held his coffee better than anyone else on the entire floor, didn't even glance at the urinals as he headed for the sinks. Or, more accurately, the mirrors.

He watched himself tucking in his shirt, long fingers darting efficiently beneath the waistband of his slacks. Sandover demanded a certain level of professionalism, even from their lowest-tier employees, and that meant that having his shirt untucked just wasn't an option. As much as he hated this job, as much as he wanted out, he badly needed both the money and the insurance.

And, somehow, as the weeks had passed, having his shirt tucked in had become something more than just a company mandate. This shirt had billowed around his narrow waist when he'd started here. Being unable to tuck it in, requesting a larger size...well, that would be like admitting defeat, and if Sam was anything, he was stubborn.

He hadn't found a better way to make his shirt stay put, and there weren't any safety pins lying conveniently on the lips of the sinks, so he let his arms hang by his sides and scrutinized himself. It wasn't something that he'd done in awhile, thanks to a schedule that was downright stifling most days and, maybe, a little bit of apprehension on his part. That was why he forced himself to observe and catalog every detail, impassively. He needed to know what had changed.

Sam had never been very good at judging weight, but he guessed that he'd gained twenty-five to thirty pounds since he'd been hired. And it was pretty easy to see that almost all of it had settled around his middle. He had a very obvious paunch that the fabric of his shirt stretched tightly across, a flat hollow in it where his navel was. It was softly rounded, still just barely small enough to keep from overlapping his belt, and it merged almost seamlessly into a large pair of love handles that sat directly above his hips. Those stretched his shirt out, too. He grabbed one, and winced at how far his fingers sunk into it - not to mention the fact that the squeezing had untucked his shirt again. He moved. His midsection jiggled and bounced.

Okay. Looking at it, touching it, it was a lot worse than he had originally thought, Sam told himself as he stared at the mirror. The lights in this pale-tiled bathroom made his irises a washed-out gray. But it was definitely not the end of the world. It was just his waist, his stomach. The rest of him looked fine. If his overfed belly hadn't been pulling his shirt out, away from his chest, then the sharp lines of his pectorals would have been visible through it. His biceps were still large, not an ounce of fat on them. He didn't even have a hint of a double chin. And his ass...Sam turned in order to look at it in the mirror, and sank his teeth into his lower lip at the sight of a pair of soft globes that were definitely much larger than he remembered. Make that thirty-five to forty pounds.

All right...it was just his waist, his stomach, and his ass.

He could deal.

Sam straightened his shirt yet again, and sighed deeply at his reflection. He didn't understand. Sure, he hadn't exactly been hitting the gym lately, and his eating habits left a lot to be desired, but that wasn't anything new. He'd grown up on the road, and he'd lived out of a car right up until meeting the woman who was now his ex-fiancee. That translated to a lot of time spent in one position, and a lot of fast, cheap, and above all, unhealthy meals. He had never put on so much as a pound before. Any and all extra weight had melted off of his frame within a matter of days and been replaced by new muscle. What was so different now?

Sam reached down and cupped the underside of his stomach, feeling the warm weight of it and staring at it in the mirror. Maybe this was happening because he was just older now. A decent amount of time had gone by since then, and one of the symptoms of aging was having your metabolism slow down.

"That's all this is," Sam told his reflection, swiping his hair out of his face. He wasn't worried about anyone hearing him talking to himself, but just in case, he kept his voice low. "I'm getting older. I need to do more to stay in shape, and I haven't been. I'll pick up a knee brace on my way home tonight, and head to the gym tomorrow. I need to get serious about this." He patted his belly. It jiggled again, and in the mirror, his lips thinned to a narrow line.

Sam washed his hands and splashed cold water onto his face before going back to his station. He wasn't pleased by what he'd seen in the mirror, but he definitely felt a lot better about everything now that he had a plan to deal with it. That good mood only lasted as long as it took him to reach Ian, though.

Ian looked up when he heard Sam approaching, then nodded to his desk (which he couldn't quite see yet) as he remarked, "Your not-so-secret admirer's at it again, Sam."

"Oh, you're kidding." Sam hurried to his desk, but he already knew what he'd find there. The scent had begun to spread out over the whole area, soft and sweet and rich. A mass-produced wicker basket, full of muffins, was sitting next to his keyboard. There was a card leaning against the top muffin. Sam dropped heavily into his chair with a sigh, picking up the card as he did so.

It was made of stiff white paper, and a generic-looking message had been printed on it in big, glossy block letters: _The work you do is appreciated, Samuel Wesson._ After rolling his eyes and muttering, "I bet," under his breath, Sam flipped the card over. He wasn't surprised to see writing on the back.

_I know you get hungry around this time. I hope that these will tide you over until your lunch break. - Dean Smith_

Black pen. Alternatingly spiky and looping handwriting. He'd tacked his title on after his name in the beginning, always, but he must have started feeling like that was too formal or something.

"The boss?" Ian asked, leaning back in his chair again.

"The boss," Sam confirmed grimly, crumpling the card up and managing a neat overhead shot into the wastebasket at the end of their aisle.

"Wow." Ian shook his head, grinning. "Does he appreciate you or _what_?"

"'Or what' sounds more like it." Sam looked over the basket and its contents with a critical eye. There were several different types of muffins. No, actually, there were a ton: blueberry, cranberry orange, banana nut, lemon poppyseed, apple cinnamon, and even chocolate - which should not be a muffin flavor, in Sam's opinion; anything chocolate that was shaped like that was a cupcake. The scent coming from them was overpowering this close, they looked moist, and Sam had been able to tell they were still warm when he took the card. He had no doubt that they were ridiculously delicious. Pretty much everything that came from Mr. Smith was.

This was the third reason behind the weight that he'd gained this past weekend. And, probably, most of the weight that he'd gained before that, too: gifts, always in the form of something edible, from his boss. Donuts, bouquets of chocolate-dipped fruit, muffin baskets like the one that was sitting on his desk right now. They never failed to find him, whether he was at his station or in his apartment, and they always came with a card that had something about how much he was appreciated on one side, and a handwritten message from Mr. Smith on the other. Those notes usually hinted that Mr. Smith knew more about Sam than Sam was honestly comfortable with him knowing.

Sam had been happy when the packages first started arriving, touched that someone had recognized the fact that he was one of the few people in his department who rarely, if ever, slacked off, but that had faded away fairly quickly. Getting a gift every morning for two or three days in a row was fun, but every morning for a week was just weird. He'd been bemused for awhile. Now he thought that he was probably being harassed. That didn't stop him from eating the food, though. If they were roofied, he was counting on Ian to notice when he passed out.

This time, he hesitated before reaching for one of the muffins. He was hungry, and they smelled great, but the image of his belly, swollen from a steady stream of sugar over the past months, was still fresh in his mind. He knew he should just ignore the basket, or pass the muffins out to everyone else. And he also knew that there was no way that he was going to make it until lunch with nothing in his stomach.

One muffin wasn't going to hurt him, was it?

Even if it was a chocolate one.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"So. You feeling any better now?" Ian asked.

"I told you. I'm just fine," Sam muttered. "There's nothing wrong with me."

"You looked like you were gonna puke all over your keyboard earlier."

"I'm fine now."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." Sam raked a hand through his hair, accidentally yanking out a few strands when they got tangled around his fingers. "I'm _positive_."

"Well..." The wheels of Ian's chair squeaked loudly as he pulled himself back in towards his desk and cut off his line of sight to Sam. "If you say so."

Sam grunted. His arms were folded on the cool laminate of his desk, his head resting in them. His belly, still overstuffed and aching despite the fact that it'd been hours since he'd eaten his last bite of muffin, pressed against his thighs. It wasn't extremely comfortable, but it was better than sitting up straight so that everyone around him could get an eyeful of what'd happened to his midsection.

He had no hope at all of tucking his shirt in now. His stomach was too bloated for that - he could barely get it halfway down, the hem resting over his navel. That was way more skin than he was comfortable showing. His belly was sore, tight and hard (underneath the initial layer of fat) with everything in it. Namely a dozen muffins. He glared at the empty basket.

He hadn't meant to. He _really_ hadn't meant to, and god knew that he usually had more self-control than this. But he'd just been so freaking hungry, and he'd eaten four before he'd finally been able to feel like his stomach acid wasn't in danger of eating a hole through him, and then it'd been lunchtime, and he'd figured that going out and buying something would be a waste of money with so much food in front of him...

Basically, Sam had made a long string of bad decisions today, and he was paying for all of them right now.

He was sure that everyone could tell, too. Even though he was hunched over, it couldn't be that hard to see his stomach where it was bulging out on either side of his lap, and the gurgling noises that it was making as it tried to digest all of the pastries that he'd packed it with seemed loud enough to be heard on the floor above him. Sam squeezed his eyes shut as a hot blush flamed across his cheeks.

It was about two-thirty now. Two and a half more hours, and he could go home and crawl straight into bed - after getting that damn knee brace, of course. He would have taken off already...but there was no way that he could walk past everyone and ride home on the bus in the state that he was in right now.

Sam lowered a hand to his belly with a soft sigh, massaging as best he could with this awkward position. He'd never needed a belly rub before. Or, more accurately, he'd never tried to give himself one before. But he was hurting so badly that he was willing to try anything right now.

He was finally grateful for the fact that it was a slow day. He had never slept at the office before (though he knew, without a doubt, that a lot of his coworkers had), but he dozed for most of the time that he had left today. It was the only thing that helped, and it couldn't be avoided, with how full he was. He was interrupted twice between three and three-thirty, by two very easy calls from the same customer. Head on his desk, eyes closed, thoughts sluggish, and stomach feeling much better, thankfully, Sam thought that he might actually make it until the end of the day without any more trouble. And then the phone rang again.

Sam was forced to raise his head. Squinting at his computer with eyes that were just a little more bleary than he would have liked, he saw that he had about fifteen minutes left. And that he'd forgotten to put his most recent caller on the spreadsheet; he should really try to do that before he went home. He picked up the handset, rattling off the company's name and then his own.

"How can I help you?" he asked, rubbing sleep out of his eyes with his thumb and index finger.

"Sam Wesson," someone on the other end repeated. The voice snapped Sam out of his daze. Low, gravelly, and honestly, disturbingly sexy. It was a smoker's voice if he'd ever heard one, but he knew that its owner had no interest in cigarettes. And that its owner had had a muffin basket delivered to his desk this morning.

"Mr. Smith," Sam answered. He made no effort to keep the surprise that he was feeling out of his voice. His boss never called him, and especially not after he'd delivered a gift.

"Listen," Mr. Smith said. He sounded casual, friendly and sympathetic but not flirtatious. "I really hate to do this to you right now, since I know that it's pretty close to quitting time...but would you mind coming up to my office for a couple minutes?"

Sam licked his lips. Was there anything he could do to get out of this? A lightning-fast assessment of the situation revealed that there wasn't, so he said, "Uh, no problem. Sir."

"Great. I really appreciate it," Mr. Smith said, and Sam thought that he might be smiling. "Go ahead and bring your briefcase or your bag or whatever. So that you don't have to go back to your desk when you're done."

"All right," Sam said. "I'll be there as soon as I can." He made to hang up, but Mr. Smith started talking again before he could get the phone away from his ear.

"Don't worry," he assured him. "You're not in any kind of trouble. Exactly the opposite, actually."

"Thank you, sir," Sam said. "That's a relief."

Mr. Smith chuckled, and Sam hung up.

He'd heard Ian's wheels squeaking during the short conversation and knew that he had to be burning up with curiosity, but he wasn't in the mood to hash this over with him right now. He probably didn't have the time, either. He leaned forward in order to switch off his computer (he'd take care of the spreadsheet on Monday), and his belly pressed against the desk, filling him with white-hot anxiety over what he was going to do about it.

"What's going on?" Ian asked, as Sam stood up.

"Mr. Smith wants to see me," he replied, as he slung the strap of his bag over his shoulder.

"How come?"

"I have no idea," Sam admitted, pushing in his chair. "Your guess is probably as good as mine."

"Maybe he finally wants to bend you over his desk," Ian suggested. Sam snorted, rolling his eyes.

"Yeah, I'm sure that's it. You're gonna get fired if you're not careful." He headed for the elevator, heavy with both muffins and a sense of foreboding.

His shirt was definitely still a problem, one that he tried to fix as soon as the silver doors had closed and he was alone in the elevator. He scowled down at the soft half-globe of his stomach as the floor numbers ticked past above him. He still couldn't tuck it in, which wasn't good, since he wasn't chatting with his coworkers or meeting his laid-back floor supervisor - he was going to see his boss, the man who oversaw several other departments as well as his own. So, in short, Mr. Smith had a lot of power. Enough power to frown at Sam's sloppy appearance and fire him only a few seconds after he'd stepped into his office.

At least his belly was actually covered now. There was no tan skin showing, no dark hair. That had to count for something...right?

Sam stared at his reflection in the brushed steel doors of the elevator. It was distorted, but not so much that he couldn't see how tight his shirt was on him or how huge his stomach still was.

He looked fat. He _was_ fat. And even the night janitors knew what a health freak Mr. Smith was.

The elevator came to a smooth stop, and the doors slid open. Swallowing so hard that he actually felt his Adam's apple bob, Sam hitched the strap of his bag a little higher on his shoulder and stepped out. The thick carpet of the hallway absorbed any sound that his shoes might have made. Trying to force himself to relax, Sam stopped in front of the door that had a placard reading "Dean Smith" on it and knocked before he could overthink it. Mr. Smith didn't have a secretary. The reason for that was the source of about seventy different rumors in the departments that he managed, Sam's included. His personal favorite was that Mr. Smith was no longer allowed to have a secretary because he was just too attractive to resist and they always ended up sleeping with him. It was probably the least-ridiculous one.

"Come in." Same voice that he'd heard on the phone. It sounded so much better in person.

Sam pushed open the door as he firmly told himself that those two words had not sent a shiver of pleasure up his spine. Mr. Smith was hunched over his desk, working on something, but as soon as Sam stepped in, he looked up and smiled. He had a really nice smile - it actually looked genuine, rather than the stiff, plastic "business" smile that you tended to see on most corporate types. Sam briefly considered the possibility that that was what Mr. Smith's smile looked like most of the time, too, and he'd brought out this one especially for him. He rejected it almost immediately.

"Hey, there," Mr. Smith greeted warmly, as Sam hesitantly approached his desk. He shoved the pen and paper that he had been using to the side. Sam wasn't close enough to read what was written on it, but it looked like a bulleted list. Maybe he'd been making some kind of note for himself. "Come on in. Sit down, make yourself comfortable."

Sam kept walking, but hesitated next to the single chair in front of Mr. Smith's large, handsome desk. His shirt did a decent job of covering him up while he was standing, but if he sat down, it might push his stomach out and expose it. He was self-conscious enough right now about that particular part of his body.

"Uh, that's all right, sir," he said, making a split-second decision. "I don't mind standing."

Mr. Smith arched an eyebrow. It was dirty blond, and just as well-groomed as the rest of him.

"Just sit down, Sam," he said. His voice was still friendly, but this had the feel of an order to it. "You're making me nervous."

"Sorry, sir." Sam sat. And sure enough, his shirt came up, and a quarter inch of belly oozed out through the crack between it and his waistband. He could only hope that the desk hid it.

Mr. Smith shook his head, smiling again. The expression was still warm and real-looking. Sam didn't trust it.

"Sam. Hey," he said. "You don't need to 'sir' me, okay? I've never been much of a fan of all that formality. We're just two employees, aren't we?"

Yeah, sure. Except for the fact that Mr. Smith had probably earned more in the last five minutes than Sam did in an entire month. Other than that, though, they were exactly the same.

"Yes, sir," Sam replied. He realized his mistake a split second too late. "I - I mean - I'm sorry. Yes. Just 'yes.'"

Mr. Smith chuckled again. "Ahh, don't worry about it. We can work on that." He folded his hands on his desk. He had taken off his suit jacket sometime earlier in the day and draped it over the back of his chair, which let Sam see his crisp white button down. And his suspenders - apparently, he was too good for a belt. Even through the relatively loose shirt, Sam could tell that his chest was firm, and his stomach was flat. He wondered how many times a week he went to the gym. It would be a private gym, three hundred bucks a month for a membership. Definitely not the company one. "So, Sam. I just want to know - do you like working at Sandover?"

Oh, no. No no no. This just didn't bode well. Trying in vain to moisten a suddenly-dry mouth, Sam said, "Of course I do." To him, it sounded way too fast.

Mr. Smith smirked conspiratorially. "No, you don't. If you're at my level, then this is a great company. But it _is_ a company, and that means that it only exists to make as much money as possible. And _that_ means that everybody at the bottom gets treated like dirt."

Sam didn't say anything. This felt like a trap to him, and he wasn't about to bash his job just so that Mr. Smith could have an excuse to fire him. No, he didn't like working here, but the job paid well for not requiring a college degree, and he'd like to keep it for at least another year. Job hunting was such a pain in the ass. Especially right now.

Mr. Smith sighed. "I'm not trying to get you in trouble," he assured earnestly, leaning forward a little. "Nobody but me can hear you. I'm not recording this. Why do you think the door is closed? You're safe here."

Which only meant that it would come down to Sam's word against Mr. Smith's. He couldn't bring himself to look at those odds optimistically.

"I like working here," Sam said firmly. "There's a good atmosphere. I get along really well with all my coworkers." And then, before he could stop himself: "And I'm appreciated."

Mr. Smith grinned. "You definitely are," he agreed. Sam was a little relieved by his reaction; that last comment had come out a little snide. "I'm guessing you got my muffins?" His eyes - a bright, energetic green - flicked down to Sam's stomach.

Sam's face heated up like magma had just been pumped under his skin. He reached down and practically yanked on his shirt. It didn't really help. "Y-yes. I did. Thanks."

"Were they good?" Was his grin wider? Yes, his grin was much wider now.

"Yeah." Sam licked his lips, cleared his throat, and looked away.

"Good. I'm glad." Mr. Smith leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers together above his head and stretching. "Sam, I asked you if you liked it here because I don't think that you should be working here."

Sam's gaze, wide with shock, immediately snapped to Mr. Smith's face. His embarrassment was completely forgotten. His heart was thundering in his chest and his extremities felt cold and numb. In the very back of his mind, he was worried about vomiting muffins all over his boss's desk.

"W-what?" he asked shakily.

"Hey, hey, hey." Mr. Smith, looking concerned, raised both of his hands. "Please calm down, Sam. I'm not firing you, don't worry. I'm just saying that you shouldn't be working here. Or, at least, you shouldn't be in the position that you are now."

Sam stared blankly. Okay. He wasn't being fired. He understood that - but he didn't understand anything else that Mr. Smith had just said.

"Your department doesn't deserve you," Mr. Smith clarified.

"I..." Sam began uncertainly, and then trailed off.

"You're overqualified for your job, Sam." Mr. Smith sounded a little exasperated. Sam finally got what he was trying to tell him, and couldn't quite believe what he was hearing.

"No, I'm not," he said, shaking his head. He had to resist the urge to laugh a little bit. "I'm not. I don't have a - "

"What do you mean, you're not?" Mr. Smith interrupted. He didn't sound or look angry - just a little confused. "You're a great problem solver, Sam. You have amazing problem skills. And I know that you're smart - really, really smart. Smarter than three quarters of the execs in this building, if I had to take a guess." He folded his arms across his chest. "And yet you're manning phones ten floors down. Why is that?"

"I - I don't have a degree," Sam said, by way of an explanation.

"But your resume says that you went to college," Mr. Smith said. "Stanford University, actually. That's impressive."

"Three and a half years," Sam said, then continued, trying not to sound too bitter. "Then they canceled my scholarship. They said they didn't have the money, and, well, neither did I." And the idea of taking out student loans...he just couldn't.

"There are lots of other careers that don't require a degree," Mr. Smith pointed out. "Modeling, for one. I mean, your complexion, your hair, those cheekbones - you could go really far in the industry."

Sam had absolutely no idea what to say to that. He felt like he'd just been complimented. Actually, no, not just complimented - he felt like he was being _flirted_ with. Maybe Ian had been right. He glanced down, just so that he wouldn't have to maintain eye contact with Mr. Smith, and caught sight of his stomach once again.

"I don't think I could be a model," he said.

"Well, yeah, it's not a very well-respected job, is it?" Mr. Smith said. As if he hadn't just been examining Sam's bloated midsection a little over five minutes ago. "And if you're overqualified where you are now, then modeling...whew."

Sam fidgeted in his seat. This whole meeting was just kind of weird. He was uncomfortable, embarrassed, stressed - he just wanted to go home. Or at least have Mr. Smith get to whatever point he was trying to make.

"Did you just call me up to tell me that I'm overqualified to work in tech support?" Sam asked. "Because, to be honest, I, um...I probably could've figured that out on my own."

"That doesn't surprise me." There was a rustling of fabric. Sam guessed that Mr. Smith had just moved his legs under his desk. "And, no. I didn't call you up here just to tell you that, Sam."

Sam suddenly remembered the list that Mr. Smith had been working on when he came into the room. He glanced towards it, curious about it again, but a wire mesh cup full of pens blocked his view. He had no idea how anyone could ever need that many pens.

"I called you up here to tell you that I want to interview you," Mr. Smith said. "For a much higher position in Sandover."

Sam blinked. He hadn't actually been expecting this, but it was certainly a pleasant surprise. "You wanna promote me?"

Mr. Smith nodded. "This interview's basically just a formality," he explained. "You know what the higher-ups are like. Everything needs to be done by the book."

Sam nodded in agreement, even though he really didn't know. This was incredible. A better position meant a bigger salary, and that meant that he could upgrade from the cockroach-infested hole-in-the-wall that he was currently living in. And he wouldn't have to spend his whole day on the phone with the most moronic specimens the human race had to offer...and he wouldn't have to deal with everything he put in the break room fridge being stolen before ten in the morning. He'd probably get his own office, too. Or, at the very least, his own cubicle. Sam wasn't what anyone would call antisocial, but the idea of privacy was a very appealing one.

He realized he was smiling. Widely. "Mr. Smith - "

Mr. Smith held up a hand, interrupting him. "C'mon. What did I tell you earlier? Just two employees." He stretched a hand across the desk with a smile. "It's Dean."

Sam returned the smile, and took his hand. He was surprised by the way that it felt. Mr. Smith - Dean - had a very firm grip, warm, and his hand was heavily callused. It felt way more like the hand of a construction worker or a mechanic or maybe even a soldier than that of an upper-level manager.

"So, are we doing this right now, or...?" Sam asked, after releasing Dean's hand.

"I don't see why not," Dean said, getting to his feet and grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair. Sam's eyebrows drew together in confusion before he said, "Over dinner, though."

"Uh..." Sam wasn't hungry. Well, _yes_ , all right, he was, just a little bit. But he was also sure that he was still full of muffins. "Dinner?"

Dean smiled, coming around the side of his desk. Sam stood up, too, grabbing his bag off of the floor.

"I told you that this whole thing was just a formality, didn't I?" he said. "If we have to do it, then we might as well have a little fun with it. And besides." Before Sam knew it, the hand that he'd just shaken was on his belly, patting it almost affectionately. "You look like a guy who can appreciate a good meal."

Sam stammered, and blushed. There wasn't much else he could do in response to what had just happened. No one besides Sam himself had ever touched his stomach before - not even the company doctor. He swore that he could still feel Dean's hand against himself, every detail of it, blazing hot. He was wearing a ring, but Sam knew he wasn't married.

How did he know that? Why did he care?

Dean's smile faded, until he looked a little sheepish. "Hey...I'm sorry, man. I really didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. It was a compliment." He leaned down to snag a briefcase that had been resting against the side of his desk. "It's actually kind of refreshing to see someone - especially our age - who realizes that most people look better with a few extra pounds." And Sam was blushing again. Had he just been told that his pudge looked good on him? "Someone who's totally comfortable with his appearance. Not..." Dean picked a mostly-empty, reusable water bottle up off of his desk with a look of distaste. "...like me."

Sam made a noise of disgust. The bottle was opaque, but when Dean shook it, he could still make out some kind of lumpy brown liquid sloshing around inside.

"What _is_ that?" He'd crossed his arms over his stomach in a weak attempt to hide it, but now he was distracted, and he let them drop.

"Trust me when I say that you probably don't want to know," Dean said. He set the bottle back on his desk. "I've been too busy to hit the gym lately, and that stuff is supposed to be the next best thing. Between you and me, though, I'm pretty sure that it slims you down by making you sick every time you take a swig of it." He headed for the door, and Sam followed. He didn't question the fact that he'd left the bottle on the desk. If that stuff was as bad as Dean said, then if Sam were him, he'd probably want to forget about it in his office all weekend, too. "I've been on it for a few days now, though, so I think it's okay if I splurge tonight."

Definitely a health freak - looked like those particular rumors had been true. But Dean actually seemed to admire the fact that Sam was...big. Maybe he had some kind of disorder. Body dysmorphia or anorexia. Or even bulimia; Sam thought back to what he'd said about the stuff that he was drinking making him sick. But he didn't look like it and he didn't act like it. It was far more likely that he was just as self-conscious as Sam, but had the resources and willpower to actually do something about it. Or maybe his superiors didn't quite share his point of view, and he was concerned about being passed over for a promotion or a pay raise if he didn't keep himself in shape.

Sam resolved that, if anyone asked him about it, that very last thing would be what he would tell them. No way was he going to start a rumor about their boss - who was probably the nicest and most worker-oriented businessman Sam had ever met - having an eating disorder.

They stepped into the elevator once the doors had opened, and Dean leaned forward and pressed the button for the first floor before Sam could. When he straightened up, standing next to him but still keeping a comfortable amount of distance between them, Sam realized for the first time that he was bigger than Dean. And not just in the stomach region, either. His shoulders and chest were wider, and his biceps were definitely larger by a couple of inches. He was taller, too. If he stood at six-four, then he guessed that Dean was around six-nothing. Maybe six-one. The size difference had been difficult to see when they were sitting on opposite sides of a desk, but now that they were standing next to each other, it was obvious. To Sam, at least. He wondered if Dean had noticed.

"Do you have a car?" Dean asked, turning to Sam and breaking him out of his silent comparison of their bodies.

"Uh, no," Sam answered, shaking his head. "I don't. I used to, but it broke down a few months back, and I could've bought a whole new one for what it would've cost to get it fixed. I take the bus now." He would have thought that his father was cussing him out from Heaven for having that crappy, dinged-up Impala towed away instead of repaired, but he really doubted that John Wesson was in Heaven.

"Okay. That makes things easier," Dean said with a smile. "We can just take my car."

"Are you sure?" Sam asked. That struck him as a little intimate, and he didn't want Dean to feel uncomfortable just because he was trying to be polite. "Because I could - "

"Of course I'm sure," Dean interrupted. The elevator coasted to a stop, and he smiled at Sam again. They both stepped out in the lobby as the doors opened. "It's not a long drive to the place that I have in mind."

As they left the elevator, Sam could have sworn that a hand brushed appreciatively over the curve of his ass. Not just any hand - it was unmistakably Dean's. He could feel the calluses on it even through his slacks and boxers, since the thin fabric was stretched taut across his buttocks. He froze, about to shoot a withering glare and a sharp rebuke at the other man, but Dean just stopped a few steps ahead and glanced back at him, puzzled.

"Are you coming?" he asked.

"Uh...yeah. Of course I am." Sam caught up with him, the tension slowly draining out of his muscles. It'd just been an accident, if he hadn't imagined it (which he wouldn't put past himself right now, considering what his day had been like). Dean probably hadn't even noticed that they'd touched. Sam's mind, hypersensitive already when it came to that and a few other parts of himself, had taken a second of accidental contact and twisted it into a hurried caress of his ass, meant to judge just how large it was, and a lightning-fast almost-squeeze that had sent a spurt of blood to his groin.

Sam shoved any and all thoughts about that out of his head.

They drew a few stares and caused a handful of whispers as they crossed the lobby. Everyone else was getting out and taking off right now, so they had a pretty large audience. It wasn't exactly normal for someone at Dean's level to be walking with a tech support guy, and Dean made it very clear that this wasn't an accident, speaking directly to and looking at Sam. That was just kind of nice. Despite his relatively high position in the company, Dean didn't appear to care what anyone thought about him. He was just as focused on Sam right now as he had been when they were alone in his office. Which made sense, if Sam was going to be his equal this time next week.

"Do you like Italian food?" Dean asked as they walked.

"Who doesn't?" Sam asked with a smile. Privately, he was hoping that Dean intended to pay for him, wherever they went. Even if it was a fairly inexpensive restaurant, he wasn't actually sure how much money he had in his wallet right now, and for some reason, he had never trusted credit cards.

"Well, I figured you did," Dean said, as they passed the receptionists and approached the front doors. "You really seemed to enjoy the tiramisu that I sent to your desk. About a month ago?"

Sam blinked in surprise, but he guessed that it wasn't that far-fetched that Dean could have seen him. He remembered the tiramisu, actually. It'd been amazing - a step above all of the other great things that Dean had sent to him. It had been cut into rectangular slices. He'd eaten only a few of them at work (because his appetite had been smaller then), and taken the rest home, munching on one as he walked through the lobby. Dean had probably caught sight of him then, and yeah, he'd definitely been enjoying it.

"Yeah," he agreed. "I really did." He hesitated, unsure how to put what he wanted to ask, and finally began, "About all that stuff..."

"You've probably been wondering about that for awhile," Dean said. His voice was a bit apologetic as he held open the door for Sam. "I guess I should have explained sooner. You're a great asset, and you have useful skills. I didn't want you to quit before I had the chance to talk to you."

Something about the way that he said that made Sam doubt that he meant talking to him about the interview. But he mentally shook it off. What else could he possibly mean?

The praise made Sam glow as they walked through the parking lot. He grinned, glad to have an explanation that made sense didn't freak him out. He spoke as they turned towards what was obviously Dean's car - a shiny late-model hybrid, nestled in a parking space that was luxuriously close to the entrance and had his name on it to discourage any would-be trespassers.

"It definitely worked," Sam said, as Dean pressed a button on the key fob that he'd just dug out of his pocket and unlocked the car. "I felt appreciated. And..." He felt pretty comfortable with Dean at the moment. He figured that it would be fine if he made a joke. "...overfed."

Dean looked at him, over the top of the car as he pulled open the driver's side door, smiled, and then said, "I bet."

Sam let that go as he put his seat belt on and Dean turned the keys in the ignition. He was just too sensitive right now, and he couldn't expect Dean to know that, much less cater to it. He had to do well here. Even though it'd sounded like the job was pretty much his, that didn't mean that it wouldn't pay to make a good impression here. In fact, the purpose of this whole thing might be to see what he acted like when he thought that he had everything in the bag.

And besides. It was probably good that he was going out on a Friday night, even if it was just so that he and his soon-to-be-former boss could discuss his new job. He'd spent way too much time moping around his apartment lately, and that was probably why he had as large of a paunch as he did.

The car stopped. It'd been smooth, but it was still enough to jar him out of his thoughts. Next to him, Dean muttered, "Oh, I don't believe this." He leaned forward, peering around the cars in front of them to see what had forced him to stop: the road was torn up. For a long stretch, there was nothing but dirt, large piles of broken asphalt, and empty construction machines. Workers in hard hats and neon vests walked along the perimeter of the mess, setting up cones and signs as they prepared to leave for the day. One holding a large orange "DETOUR" sign was waving cars, one at a time, down a narrow side street.

"Oh my god," Sam said. "Wow. This wasn't here this morning."

"No," Dean agreed. He sounded like he was struggling to hide how frustrated he felt right now. "The least they could have done was warned us then, though."

"Looks like there's a detour," Sam pointed out. He couldn't help feeling like Dean was just a little more upset by the unexpected construction than he needed to be, but he didn't say anything about it. It wasn't like the guy hadn't already shown signs of being a perfectionist.

"Yeah, I know where it goes." Dean sighed. "This might take a little longer than I thought it would."

"I don't mind," Sam said. Having spent a very large part of his childhood riding in a car, he found it soothing, and that was something that he could use after the nerve-shredding day that he'd had. "It's not like I have any other plants tonight." He smiled sheepishly.

Dean turned to glance at him and smiled back, and when he said, "Me, neither," Sam somehow got the impression that he'd canceled or turned down all other plans in order to do this with him tonight.

Dean reached over and turned on the radio as they passed the signholder and started on the detour. When he settled on a station and put his hand back on the wheel, looking slightly more relaxed, Sam was surprised to hear that their taste in music was actually kind of similar. He commented on it, and they fell into an easy conversation. The topic shifted to their favorite books, their favorite movies, their political views, their favorite subjects in high school. Sam hadn't even realized how much he'd missed having an intelligent discussion with someone - it was a luxury that he hadn't experienced since breaking up with his fiancee. Ian was a great guy, but their conversations tended to revolve around porn and their coworkers. Usually both at the same time.

Dean was smart. Not that Sam had expected any less from a man as successful as he was, but he was pleasantly surprised by just how smart he was - and how much they had in common. They enjoyed a lot of the same things. Their tastes differed a little bit, which was to be expected, since Sam was basically white trash and Dean (Sam assumed) had come from at least an upper middle class background. But Dean surprised him again when he started talking about where he'd grown up.

"A scrapyard?" Sam asked, a little incredulously.

"And a garage." Dean laughed. "It was nice. Profitable. There's a lot of farming in South Dakota, so we worked with some of that equipment, but for some reason, there are a lot of classic cars, too." He smiled at Sam. "Surprised?"

"A little," Sam admitted. "You don't sound like you're from South Dakota." He barely used any Midwestern slang at all, and as hard as Sam had been trying since Dean told him his state of origin, he couldn't hear any trace of an accent.

"That's probably because I went to college out here," Dean said. The sunlight was fading, and the streetlamps were flicking on in sections. "I got a scholarship, a lot like you." He flicked a half-guilty glance at Sam, and without him saying anything, Sam knew that his hadn't run out before he could get a degree. "I majored in business and minored in accounting, and before I'd even graduated, Sandover had offered me an internship. How could I say no to something like that?"

"What did your parents think?" Sam asked.

"They were happy for me," Dean replied. But his voice was a little too controlled, and he didn't look at Sam as he said it, which pretty much broadcast in neon lights that there was more to the story than that. Sam let it go. It was none of his business. "From what I've heard, my sister is going to take over the business." He looked at Sam again. "Do you have any siblings?"

"No," Sam said. Even though, for all he knew, his father could have a dozen bastard children scattered around the States. He was eager to steer the conversation away from his own childhood and back to Dean's, so he asked, "Did you ever help out in the garage?"

"Of course," Dean said with a smile. "I may not have seen one in a year or two, but I know my way around a wrench."

That explained the calluses. Or, wait, no, it didn't. If Dean hadn't so much as seen a wrench in "a year or two," then whatever calluses he'd gained from working on cars in his parents' garage should have long since dropped off or faded away. Sam supposed that they could have come from working out, but he doubted that you could maintain calluses that thick just from lifting weights.

The conversation went smoothly after that. Dean asked Sam a few more things about how he'd grown up, but Sam always managed to avoid talking about himself in any detail. Things were going startlingly well until, in the middle of a debate over the merits of black coffee versus those of coffee with cream and sugar in it, Sam's stomach growled. Loudly.

He blushed, covering it with both of his hands and gritting his teeth when they sank into the fat of it. He had been so focused on Dean that he hadn't noticed how hungry he was getting.

Dean smiled. "Good thing we're almost there, huh?"

Sam nodded in silent agreement. He shifted his weight a little, his bag sliding around where it was leaning against his shins.

Almost as soon as they'd turned another corner, Sam felt Dean tense next to him. He saw the reason for it in less than a second. There was the restaurant that Dean had almost certainly been planning on taking him to, and it looked really nice. Rooftop gardens, a fountain out front, a large and elegant sign. But the windows were dark and there were no cars in the parking lot.

"They must have closed early," Sam said, seeing the usual hours written on the front doors, illuminated by Dean's headlights.

"I'm sorry," Dean apologized. Sam opened his mouth to tell him that he didn't have to be, but he continued before he could speak. "It's getting late, and there aren't any other nice restaurants around here, but I'd feel pretty bad about taking you home without feeding you." Some part of Sam stirred, uneasy, at the way that he said "feeding." "I completely understand if you say no to this, but...I've got a lasagna in my refrigerator, and I can whip up some breadsticks in no time at all. Would you like to eat dinner at my place?"

Sam hesitated, despite the warm burst of excitement and pleasure that the invitation had caused in his chest. This was definitely crossing a line or two. Going out to dinner with his superior in a mock interview to please some people higher up the corporate ladder was probably fine. Riding in that superior's car was a little abnormal, but again, fine. Going to that superior's home and eating dinner there, alone, with him? That had to break a few company rules.

The rules could go to Hell. This was their own time, no one was watching them, they were both adults. Dean was a wonderful guy and Sam wouldn't mind spending some more time with him. He was hungry, and lasagna was healthy - wasn't it?

"I'd love to," Sam said. "How far is it from here?"

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

"Now, I'd like to apologize in advance, because I really don't know a thing about wine," Dean said with a self-deprecating smirk, pouring about an inch of fragrant, purple-red liquid into Sam's glass. "This is just something that my boss got me for Christmas, so it may or may not go with what we're eating."

"You think I do?" Sam said with a laugh, as Dean filled his own glass. "Know anything about wine, I mean. This smells great, and that's good enough for me." He'd only drunk wine once or twice before in his life, but the raspberries-and-chocolate scent of whatever this was (he hadn't caught sight of the label) made him regret that. He couldn't imagine it not going with anything.

"Not a real big wine drinker, huh?" Dean asked with a smile as he settled into his seat. Sam took a moment to answer. The kitchen, sterile white, well-lit, and gleaming with brand-new appliances, was filled with scents that would have made Sam's stomach sit up and beg - if he hadn't had the heels of both hands sunk against it in an effort to keep it from embarrassing him by growling again. The wine, of course, the lasagna that was currently in the oven, breadsticks...and whatever cologne or aftershave Dean was wearing seemed to have multiplied tenfold as soon as he was in his own home. Normally, Sam would have found that stifling, but...he liked it. He smelled good, and that only contributed to everything else.

"Just not a real big drinker," Sam replied finally, his voice even.

To his relief, Dean didn't comment on the delay, or ask what he had against alcohol. He just smiled again and said, "Me, neither." Leaning forward, he grabbed a pair of tongs off of the table - the same bright chrome as almost everything else in his kitchen - and used them to move two steaming breadsticks from the basket in the middle of the table to his plate. "I really hope you're not uncomfortable - "

"No! No," Sam assured, cutting him off. He wouldn't have even though about doing that an hour or two earlier, but it didn't seem to matter now, and Dean didn't so much as blink. "No. This is...this is nice."

He smiled as he said it, and he definitely meant every word. He had been looking forward to going out, spending his Friday night doing something other than watching TV or reading alone in his apartment, but somehow, this struck him as much better than eating at a restaurant. Here, did didn't have to worry about the fact that he hadn't had the opportunity to change out of his uniform. And there was no dull roar that could drown out his or Dean's voice.

"I'm glad you think so," Dean said. "I mean, I know that my apartment is kind of empty..."

"Your apartment is probably nicer than most restaurants." Sam laughed, but again, he meant it.

He wasn't sure what he had expected out of Dean's home, but the apartment that he'd brought him back to after realizing that the restaurant was closed had both met and completely evaded those expectations. It was big, but not as big as he would have thought that it would be (but maybe that made sense, since Dean was the only one living here and didn't seem like the kind of guy who wasted a whole lot of money). It was very white, which didn't surprise him; the furniture was all pale, and the only contrast came from the fact that every fixture was either chrome or stainless steel. The walls and carpet were spotless. There was a huge window that provided a breathtaking view of the city, and that the building that they worked in could be seen from, which Sam only knew because Dean had pointed it out to him during the fifty-cent tour.

The place was nice enough to make Sam just about drool with jealousy, thinking about his own pitiful lodgings, but there was no... _personal_ touch to it. It was generic and plain, as if the apartment had come furnished and Dean hadn't changed a single thing since he'd moved in. The place was so clean, so orderly, that it felt unlived in. Sam was willing to bet money that Dean's building had a cleaning service, that he took full advantage of it, and that they barely had any work to do whenever they came here. He couldn't help but find that strange.

But maybe Dean just hadn't been living here very long. Sam noticed too many things and read too deeply into all of them, and had for as long as he could remember.

Whatever the reason behind the cold, impersonal feel that permeated most of Dean's apartment, it stopped short at the threshold of the kitchen. It was still modern, still clean, but it was a different sort of clean. A "it's-clean-now-because-it-was-dirty-before" sort, as opposed to the "it's-always-been-clean" vibe everywhere else. Sam suspected that Dean wasn't actually at home very often, but whenever he was, he was in here. Cooking.

Sam had been expecting the lasagna that Dean had mentioned to be leftovers of the previously-frozen variety, and the breadsticks to be stiff, tasteless things made from some sort of mix. But then Dean had pulled a deep dish sausage lasagna, homemade and ready to eat except for the fact that it was uncooked, out of the fridge - which Sam had been able to see was stocked with five or six other prepared dishes. And the breadsticks? He'd made them from scratch and baked them with the lasagna.

Dean had actually just barely gotten those breadsticks out of the oven and, after brushing them with olive oil, sprinkling them with garlic, and dumping them into a basket, put them on the table. Sam had inhaled three of them before he even got around to pouring the wine. He had convinced himself not to feel guilty about that, since it was just bread, and olive oil couldn't have very many empty calories in it, and besides: wasn't homemade stuff supposed to be a lot healthier than what you'd get in a restaurant?

"And your cooking is probably nicer than most restaurants', too," Sam added. He put another two breadsticks on his plate, mimicking Dean so that he wasn't eating alone. He took an experimental sip of his wine, since his mouth was pretty dry after those first three pieces of bread, and felt a flicker of approval at how refreshing it was. He couldn't even taste any alcohol, so it was really more like fruit juice than wine.

Dean laughed. "Ahh, I'm sure that's not true...but thank you." He took a bite of one of his own breadsticks, and Sam was relieved to see that he just picked it up with his fingers instead of using his silverware. Just like Sam had unthinkingly been doing this whole time. "I'm really glad you like it."

"I have no idea why you're a manager at a tech company," Sam told Dean, shaking his head. He was careful not to talk with his mouth full. "Or a 'bridge and ironworks' company or whatever. I mean...I've tasted a lot of so-called 'home cooking,' but yours is something else. You could be working at a restaurant in New York, or - or Paris, even."

Dean laughed again, louder this time, and Sam could tell that he was pleased. There was a light, happy flush across his cheeks, making every freckle pop out, and it definitely wasn't from the wine, since he hadn't even touched his glass yet.

"Definitely not Paris," he said with a grin. "And no matter how upscale the restaurant is, benefits for a head chef aren't gonna be nearly as good as the ones for a manager."

"Well, at some point, you have to weigh the benefits of your job against how much you like it," Sam pointed out.

Dean smiled at him, picking up his own wineglass and taking a drink from it. "Hey, who said that I didn't like my job?"

"Oh." Embarrassed, Sam glanced down at his plate. He blinked in surprise. His two breadsticks were gone...and, great, his shirt was starting to ride up again. Just what he needed. "I'm sorry. I guess I just kind of...assumed."

"That's fine," Dean assured. "More breadsticks?" He'd put two more on Sam's plate before he could answer, and Sam decided that he should pick his battles. "I mean, it's an office job. A lot of people don't like office jobs. But this is what I learned how to do in college, what I knew I wanted to do in high school, and it's...fulfilling. Most of the time." He took another sip of wine, then polished off his breadsticks and grabbed a third one for himself. "When it's boring, then I've got hobbies."

"Cooking," Sam supplied with a smile. He bit into one of his own breadsticks to punctuate that.

"I go out, too, you know." Dean grinned. "Most weekends."

"You mean, like...with friends?" For some reason, Sam found that almost disheartening. He took another bite of breadstick, just in case it was reflected in his expression and he needed to mask it.

"No. Alone."

"Where d'you go?"

When Dean gave him a name, Sam paused before swallowing his mouthful of bread. He knew the place. It was a well-known - well, it was a bar whose clientele was entirely male. Sam had gone to it once or twice before he really started gaining weight, wanting to take his mind off of his ex-fiancee, but he hadn't bought anything: the drinks there were way out of his price range.

"Oh," Sam said. He drained his glass. He wasn't worried about getting drunk, since there'd been barely more than a mouthful of wine in there to begin with and he certainly wasn't a lightweight.

"You know it?" Dean asked mildly. But his eyes - like emeralds under glass, Sam swore - were fixed on Sam's face. Sam finished the second breadstick that had been on his plate. Dean wanted to see how he'd react to his sexuality, what kind of person he was. He didn't have to worry. Sam had never been bigoted in the slightest towards that sort of thing, even before finding out what he knew now, and he just needed to give an answer that reflected that.

"I've been there," Sam said, and reached for another breadstick.

Dean seemed to relax after that. He'd been casual before, but now he had no barriers up at all, and soon they were laughing more than they were talking. Dean kept Sam well-supplied with both breadsticks and wine, and he reached down to ruck up his shirt without even realizing it, giving his expanding belly room to grow. The table hid it from Dean, he'd somehow come to believe that half of it was air and that he'd burp it out before he had to get up, and the breadsticks were much too good to turn down. He was getting comfortably full when Dean poured himself a second glass of wine. Something about that nagged at him, and it took him a moment to figure out what it was.

Dean was careful, and obeyed every law to the letter. On the way to the restaurant and then to his apartment, he'd stopped at every stop sign and every red light, never failed to turn on his blinker, and stayed exactly at or below the speed limit the entire time. Sam could maybe, _maybe_ see him driving after one glass of wine, but two? There was no way. Even if he wasn't even buzzed, he'd probably consider himself intoxicated. He was just that sort of person.

Dean was also polite. He couldn't drive Sam home (that realization gave him gave him a momentary burst of relief, because he didn't really want Dean to see how crappy the building that he lived in was), and he wouldn't make him ride the bus or call a cab. Which meant that he expected him to...

Oh.

Okay.

Well, that explained a lot.

"This isn't an interview," Sam said, shaking his head. He hadn't meant for it to come out sounding as accusatory as it did, and winced inside as he heard himself.

Dean took a drink of wine. His eyes were perfectly level again, unreadable, and Sam knew that he was watching him for a reaction. Dean could read people, he realized. Really well - maybe even better than Sam himself. That was probably why he'd done so well in his chosen line of work.

"It's sort of an interview," he pointed out. "I mean, if you think about it."

"Not for the job that you told me about," Sam said. He wanted another breadstick, but he didn't want his mouth full during this conversation, since it was pretty damn important. And he probably didn't need another one, if he was honest with himself.

"I didn't need to interview you for that job. I already know that you're perfect for it," Dean said. "But I told my boss that I still wanted to feel you out. Because I _did_ need to take you on a date."

And there it was. Sam guessed that there was no taking it back, since one of them had actually said out loud that it was a date. He was on a date with his boss.

"This is so inappropriate," Sam said. It was the only thing he could think of at this exact moment.

"And that's why I kind of had to...you know. Trick you into this," Dean said, using his glass to gesture at Sam. The wine inside sloshed with the movement. "I couldn't just _ask_ you. You aren't the sort of person who breaks the rules. At least, not right now.

"Neither are you," Sam replied, raising his eyebrows. He almost reached for that breadstick that he'd been craving, but he forced himself to put his hand on his stomach instead. So that he could feel how bloated he'd become just from the appetizer course of this meal. It didn't kill that craving, but it certainly subdued it.

Dean chuckled, folding his hands below his plate on the white-clothed table and looking down at them. "No, not usually," he agreed. "That's why I took so long on this. I was scared that if I asked you outright - especially right after I first saw you - then you'd start something. Sexual harassment charges. Something like that."

"How do you know that I won't do that now?" Sam mimicked Dean's position. It wasn't nearly as effective for him, since the position pressed his belly into his thighs and forced a burp that he did his best to stifle out of him. "Especially since you expect me to put out tonight. You're treating me more like an escort than a date."

"Well...I guess I don't know that, Sammy," Dean replied, leaning forward in order to put another breadstick on each of their plates. Sam had been regretting the "escort" comment, thinking that it was too harsh, but being called "Sammy" made him grit his teeth as the regret dissolved. "Why do you think that I expect you to put out? And how have I not treated you like a date?"

The last question sounded a little wounded, and a lot concerned. He seemed to be honestly worried that Sam wasn't enjoying himself, which brought the regret back in full force. Sam sighed.

"You...I'm sorry," he said, staring down at his breadsticks and worrying at his lower lip. "I shouldn't've said that. You've been great, and I - I'm still having a lot of fun, and you pulled everything together really well, even though things didn't go exactly like you planned."

Dean laughed a little, and Sam felt better. "I wanted to take you to a restaurant," he agreed. "I thought that it'd be romantic...I thought that it'd be nice for a first date. But, unfortunately, things didn't really work out that way."

Sam opened his mouth to tell Dean that he was actually enjoying being in his apartment more than he would have enjoyed being in a restaurant, but Dean was looking away from him now, at his wineglass. Sam couldn't tell if that meant that he was more comfortable or less comfortable.

"But, Sam," Dean began, running the tip of a finger around the glass's rim, "I don't understand why you think that I expect you to have sex with me tonight."

Sam licked his lips, then rubbed a hand over his face. "You...you're expecting me to stay the night, aren't you? A-and that usually means sex. Doesn't it?"

Goddammit. Why did he have to start stuttering? He could feel himself blushing, too, and that was even worse. He was so out of touch with this sort of thing. He hadn't been on a first date in years, and he'd never been on a date with another man. Not to mention the fact that he was feeling more than a little vulnerable right now, with his stomach so full and exposed.

But it was better that he was here, with Dean, while he was like this, and not out in public somewhere. He had to admit that.

"This is our first date, Sam," Dean said, putting special emphasis on the words "first date." He took another drink of wine, and Sam copied him without really thinking about what he was doing. "And, like I said before, I tricked you into coming on it. I'm not going to push my luck, or make you do anything that you're not comfortable with. Or that _I_ 'm not comfortable with, for that matter. I want you to like me." He smirked a little, and continued: "But, yeah, I expect you to stay the night. Probably on the couch - or in my bed, I can take the couch tonight if you want me to. Not because I expect you to have sex with me, but because I don't expect you to be able to handle the stairs _or_ the elevator by the time we're done with dessert."

The timer on the oven went off at that exact moment, but it barely registered in Sam's mind. He was too busy blushing a dark, hot red and hauling his shirt down over his stomach. It failed, miserably, to cover the entire expanse of his swollen belly, so he put his hands and forearms over the areas that were still exposed. He was mortified, feeling like he was about two feet tall instead of six. He knew that Dean hadn't meant to hurt him - or, no, actually, he didn't. He didn't know that he wasn't being made fun of. Dean might find the gut that had been developing on his solid frame just as shameful and disgusting as Sam himself did, might be repulsed by the fact that he had eaten so much and was so full already, might regret that he'd chosen him, out of all the men that he knew.

"Sorry," Sam mumbled, lowering his head so that his bangs tumbled across his face and hid his eyes from Dean.

"Oh, no, hey..." Sam was aware of Dean leaning across the table towards him, but he never felt him touch him. Instead, his chair scraped back, and footsteps thudded across the sparkling linoleum of the kitchen in order to stand beside Sam. "Sam." He could practically feel his hesitation, and then a hand settled onto his shoulder, and Sam found himself staring up at a very compassionate-looking Dean. "Do you know why I was interested in you in the very first place?"

"No, but I've been wondering for awhile now," Sam replied. He was amazed that he got all of that out - and so evenly, too. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that his blush was just barely starting to fade.

"Because you are gorgeous," Dean said frankly. "You were gorgeous months ago, when I first saw you, and you're gorgeous now. Nothing's changed."

Sam swallowed. He wanted to tell Dean how much he'd gained in those months, in order to show him that things most definitely had changed. His waist size, for one. But Dean was talking again before he could say a thing. His hand was suddenly in Sam's hair, and it'd just been _so long_ since someone had touched him so gently or so intimately. He had to listen to him.

"I want you to stop being embarrassed," Dean said. Even though he'd phrased it as a demand, it sounded more like a suggestion. "Or worrying about what I'm thinking, or whatever it is you've been doing every few minutes since you stepped into my office. I'm not about to make fun of you or judge you." He stroked his hair, lightly. "I like you. I like you quite a bit. And all I want is for you to like me, too."

He wasn't looking at his stomach at all, Sam realized. Just his face. He closed his eyes, briefly, and sighed.

"I'm sorry," he told Dean, when he opened his eyes again. "I'm oversensitive right now. I've never let myself go like this before."

"I figured," Dean said, with a kind smile. "And you've hardly let yourself go, you know."

Sam smirked, but didn't reply to that.

"It's been awhile since I had someone to cook for." Dean was sort of leaning in now, as if divulging some sort of secret. Sam wasn't sure if it would hurt him if people learned that he was a whiz in the kitchen, but it certainly wouldn't do him any favors. "I really love how much you enjoy my food - as if I don't get enough ego-stroking at the office, but this is different." Sam turned himself, so that all of him was facing Dean. "So I want you to eat as much as you want to. Hell, I expect you to."

"I thought all you wanted was for me to like you," Sam said. When Dean put a hand on his knee in order to keep himself from overbalancing, he didn't react. Except to put one of his own over it.

Dean smiled. "I guess I want both, then."

"You're getting both."

Sam had never kissed another man before. But Dean's mouth wasn't all that different from a woman's, given how full and soft his lips were. He tasted good, bread and wine, and he was more than happy to take the lead. Sam was clumsy, out of practice. Dean eased him into it. When they broke, he was left feeling warm and deeply fulfilled, like he had done something right for the first time in months. Maybe even years.

He wanted to tell Dean that he was almost positive that he was in love with him. What he said instead was, "I'm pretty sure your lasagna is burning by now."

Dean laughed. His lips were wet. "If I don't open the door after a minute, the oven switches itself off," he assured. "It's just fine."

Sam had to agree with him, when he took his first bite of it. Cheese, noodles, tomato sauce, meat, vegetables...every ingredient complimented another, but also stood alone, unbelievably delicious. It was like having a professionally-organized fireworks display inside of his mouth, done in flavor instead of light.

"I'm never going to another restaurant for the rest of my life," he told Dean after swallowing that first bite. "I'm just gonna come over here so that you can cook for me."

Dean laughed. He looked happy, and Sam liked that.

"I'm sure we can work something out," he said with a smile. "Don't burn yourself; it's probably still hot."

Wine, lasagna, the last of the breadsticks. Sam realized that he was still hungry, despite the size of his stomach, and accepted everything that Dean put on his plate or in his glass without question. He hadn't eaten such good food since...well, since the muffins this morning, but this was a full meal and not just a basket of snack food. Halfway through his third slice of lasagna, Sam idly realized that eating stuff Dean cooked for him on a regular basis would put weight on him faster than sand pouring through an hourglass, but one meal wouldn't hurt him. And he couldn't bring himself to care while he was eating.

Sam wasn't self-conscious. He didn't let himself focus on anything by Dean and the food. They were still talking, discussing what each of them wanted in a relationship. What they liked about each other. The precautions that they'd have to take at work in order to keep this whole thing a secret. The entire time, Sam could feel his stomach growing against his thighs and waistband, inching slowly outwards. He let it.

And Dean didn't say a word as he gorged himself. When Sam unbuttoned and unzipped his slacks, panting, after finishing the third slice, Dean just gave him another one. Every time that he burped, it made him blush, and Dean smiled. He gave up and started rubbing his belly with one hand once he was done with his fourth slice; it was just too tight to put it off any longer, too full. Dean didn't comment on it - not even when he picked up his fork with his other hand and kept eating.

After five pieces, Sam knew that he was done. He couldn't remember having ever eaten so much before, and he actually doubted that he could move right now. His stomach was huge, packed round and taut with Italian food, and it was heavy and hot on his thighs. He had his eyes closed, arms draped over the back of his chair and his legs spread.

And he was aroused. For whatever godforsaken reason...maybe it was the wine.

"More?" Dean asked, getting to his feet. Sam grunted, then tipped his head back, closing his eyes before putting a hand over them.

"I'm gonna explode," he said. "I am literally going to explode."

Dean laughed. "You don't want any more, then, I'm guessing."

"No." Sam burped. He didn't bother to stifle it this time; somehow, he just didn't see the point.

"Okay. Let me put this last piece up." Sam could hear the smile in his voice, and it relieved him. He wasn't pissed about or grossed out by him making a pig of himself.

"Urgh, Dean..." Sam put both hands on his belly, and felt it gurgle sleepily underneath his palms. "Why'd you let me stuff myself like this?"

A hand was buried in his hair, and then Dean kissed him again. It was different this time, warmer and more passionate, and Sam definitely welcomed it. He let Dean pull his mouth open and moaned at the feeling of his tongue; he could get used to kissing Dean. His eyes popped open in surprised and he broke the contact, though, when Dean laid a warm, gentle hand on the sensitive skin of his full belly.

He didn't break it very far, though. A strand of saliva, roughly the same width and color as a string of spider silk, spanned the inch or two between their lower lips. It snapped when Dean smiled again.

"I'm not hurting you, am I?" he murmured. Sam licked his lips before answering. All he could taste was Dean, knee-weakeningly sweet.

"No," he replied, shaking his head. Or, well, moving it back and forth just a little bit. "But, um...what are you doing?"

Dean had started to move his hand, rubbing Sam's stomach and kneading into it with the heel. Sam grunted, but it felt good. Even Dean's calluses felt good against his skin, not nearly as rough as he would have expected them to be. He arched the small of his back almost instinctively, pushing himself into Dean's touch and supporting his weight by planting his hands on the chair behind him.

"Does your stomach hurt?" Dean asked. Sam had been staring down at his hand, but when he looked up, he realized that Dean had been trying to make eye contact.

"Yeah," he said, shifting his hips to give Dean a better angle. This was a little strange, but it felt great, and he wasn't about to object to Dean touching him. He was a little embarrassed, to have the guy who'd taken him on his first date since he'd moved here see him in this state (the state in which he'd spent most of last weekend, incidentally - or something close to it, at least), but Dean wasn't doing anything to make him self-conscious. He still remembered his words from earlier, too.

And he really had no idea how much wine he'd had. He hadn't counted the glasses he'd drunk, and even though wine didn't have a very high alcohol content and he definitely hadn't been drinking on an empty stomach, he probably wasn't entirely sober right now. He'd always been a happy drunk; alcohol made him overly confident in his own skin.

"Of course it does," Sam continued. "You can...feel how full I am, can't you?"

Dean chuckled. "Yeah, I definitely can," he agreed with a smile. "This will make you feel better."

"Mm." It was already working, in Sam's opinion. This was very, very different from being overstuffed when he was all alone. Somehow, Dean was better at soothing him than he himself was.

"Anyway, to answer your question..." Dean's lips brushed against Sam's temple, and he turned towards him, eyes half-closed with pleasure. Dean's other hand was still stroking his hair. "I let you eat so much because you looked way too cute for me to stop you. And you were obviously enjoying yourself."

"Cute? Seriously?" Oh, _fantastic_ \- he was blushing again. How many times could he go red in one night?

"Yeah, Sam, cute." Dean straightened up, then grabbed both of Sam's hands and said, "Come on, let's get you someplace more comfortable than this chair."

"Uh, Dean, I'm not sure that I can - " Sam felt heavy. His center of balance had shifted, and whenever he was anywhere near this full, he didn't move until he'd digested a little. He was too afraid of the strain of walking making him throw up. But Dean had him on his feet within a matter of seconds, and with his support, Sam guessed that he was okay.

"See? You're fine," Dean said, with yet another smile. He had one arm around Sam's shoulders. The other was cupping the underside of his belly. Sam liked that much more than he was comfortable acknowledging. "You're strong. You definitely haven't lost any muscle definition." He squeezed his shoulder. "Now...couch."

The living room was just off of the kitchen, and it didn't take long to make it to Dean's couch. Sam cradled his stomach as they walked, uncomfortably aware that he looked like a pregnant woman. Dean lowered him onto the cushions, and Sam sighed deeply. This was more comfortable than the chair, he had to admit. Especially when Dean dropped down next to him and pressed himself close to him.

They looked at each for a second, and Sam guessed that Dean was making sure that he was comfortable with this level of contact. Most of this might be new to Sam, but he liked it, and he tried to show Dean that by leaning against him. He was rewarded with a kiss that actually left him lightheaded, and then Dean started rubbing again.

"How're you doing?" Dean murmured. One of his arms was still around Sam's shoulders, warm and comforting.

"Lots better," Sam replied. Before he could think too much about it, he reached up and took hold of Dean's hand, the one that wasn't on his belly. Dean squeezed affectionately, and a rush of unfamiliar warmth went through Sam. "But...look, I'm sorry that I - "

"What did I tell you about apologizing?" Dean interrupted, smiling. "I _love_ that you ate so much." Something that felt like a lightning bolt flashed down through Sam's stomach and straight to his groin. "It means that you had a good time, and that I made a decent meal. It means that this date went pretty well, despite that nothing went quite like I wanted it to."

"I'm gonna be honest, Dean," Sam said. Dean's hand dipped below his navel, and his eyes fluttered closed with pleasure so intense that it was tough to keep himself from moaning. It wasn't entirely sexual, but...partly. "I probably had more fun here than I would have at a restaurant."

"And I probably wouldn't have been able to rub your belly at a restaurant," Dean pointed out. Sam could tell that he was smiling.

"You don't have to do that..." Sam said, grimacing slightly. The grimace dissolved under another one of Dean's kisses.

"I like doing it," Dean told him firmly, after pulling away. He was obviously all about touch, and even if Sam hadn't been ridiculously starved for human contact, he would have been happy about that. "I just like the way you feel."

"Really?" Sam asked, a little skeptical. His belly gurgled suddenly under Dean's hand, and he winced. Dean kept rubbing. "I'm...not exactly what you'd call 'fit.'"

Dean snorted. Sam, who hadn't been expecting the harsh noise, jumped. As much as he could with so much food in his abused, softened belly.

"You're kidding, right?" he asked. "Sam, I'd bet my job that you can bench at least twice as much as I can."

"I bet my waist size is twice yours, too," Sam pointed out dryly, unconsciously spreading his legs to give Dean more access to his stomach.

"You've got the beginnings of a potbelly and love handles," Dean said. Sam decided not to mention his ass. If he hadn't noticed it by now, then he wasn't going to. "You're not fat."

"I'm not thin," Sam said. He really didn't want to have an argument right now. He would honestly prefer for Dean to kiss him again, then just keep massaging his overfed belly in silence. He was sleepy and stuffed to the gills. "How can I be when I eat like this? How many calories do you think this is?"

"Why does it matter?" Dean managed to ask it in a way that made Sam wonder just why the hell it did matter. "And, look. We'll compromise. You're chubby."

"You're not making me feel much better," Sam commented, opening his eyes and offering Dean a lazy smile. He couldn't be hurt right now. Not with him.

"Okay. Then let me try this." Dean looked down at the swell of Sam's belly, then back up at his face. "You're chubby, and I love it."

It took Sam a moment or two to process the implications of that. His brain was fuzzy with both wine and food - which may have actually been Dean's intention, some part of him realized. He thought about baskets and boxes of sweets, sugary and rich, always with a handwritten note attached. One delivered to him almost every day for months and months. His stomach filled practically to bursting because it was always so good. His weight ticking slowly upward, both his uniform and street clothes getting tighter with every week that passed, his belly and love handles looking just a little more prominent each time he glanced in the mirror. Dean asking him out almost a year after he must have first noticed him.

"Oh my god," Sam said. He forced clarity on himself, anger. It didn't matter how comfortable he was right now - he'd been used, and that stung.

"It's not really that uncommon," Dean said, obviously misunderstanding. "I mean, there're a lot of people - "

"Stop - stop touching me!" Sam snapped, cutting him off. He grabbed Dean's wrist, practically throwing his hand off of his rounded gut, then scooted out from under his other arm. He pressed his body up against the arm of the couch in an effort to put as much distance between Dean and himself as possible, grunting with the effort of moving, then clutched his stomach and groaned. He shouldn't have gone so fast, he was cramping up now, and it felt like someone was stabbing him in the stomach.

As far as he knew, no one had ever successfully stabbed him before. But, somehow, he almost believed that he knew exactly what it felt like.

"Jesus _Christ_ , Sam - you can't do that when you're this full. You're gonna make yourself sick!" Now Sam could hear the South Dakota accent, even if the twang of it was a little faded. He supposed that it made sense that it came out when Dean was upset, not in full control of himself. Right now, he just looked concerned and confused, but Sam was sure that he was pissed about him pulling away. "What the hell was that?" His eyes suddenly widened, and he made to get to his feet. "Oh, no, you're not gonna throw up, are you?"

"I wish!" Sam snapped, which only seemed to make Dean even more confused. "Feeding me in person, either at a restaurant or here - that's the next stage of your sick little plan, isn't it?"

Dean looked like he'd been slapped. "My _what_?" He sounded completely bewildered by Sam's hostile tone. Of course he was - Sam'd been playing along until he figured out exactly what was going on here.

Sam's hands tightened on his belly. It was really hurting, but he tried to push the pain to the very back of his mind so that he could focus on what he was saying.

"You've been sending me pastries for months now," Sam said through gritted teeth. "Doughnuts. Muffins. I've been getting a package of them every day, and I've been eating them. I've been getting fat. And that's what you want, right?"

"What? No. No, it's not like that," Dean said, shaking his head vehemently. He hadn't moved any closer to Sam, but he was looking at his stomach, and Sam wondered if he could tell how painful it was right now. Of course, there was a distinct possibility that he didn't even care, since they'd already established that this was how he got his rocks off. "I - look, you don't understand. If you can just listen to me - "

"No!" Sam was furious. He didn't want to be; he wanted to settle back down and let Dean go back to work on his belly, because he was sure that that would soothe the cramping in minutes. He wanted to just let Dean...love him again. Make him feel as good as he had earlier.

Of course, he knew that it wasn't love now, or any kind of affection at all. He'd been manipulated because, for whatever fucked-up reason, Dean saw him as an easy target for his twisted fetishes. The pain was helping him keep how violated he felt right now at the front of his mind.

"I'm obviously gonna be stuck here all night, with the guy who's been harassing me since I started working for this stupid company," Sam continued angrily. Dean looked away from him, shaking his head. Sam ignored that and continued. "You drank too much to drive, and you had me eat way too much for me to take a bus or a cab home."

"You did that to yourself," Dean spoke up. He looked less concerned now, more unimpressed with everything that Sam was saying. That just made him angrier.

"You encouraged me!" Sam exclaimed. "I'm not a - nngh." A particularly sharp pang gripped his stomach, and he grunted in pain, almost doubling over as he squeezed his eyes shut and locked his teeth together.

"Sam?" Dean leaned forward. With a massive effort, Sam straightened up, and glared at him through sweat-damp bangs. Dean retreated, but he was worried again. "Sammy."

"Don't call me that." It dredged up memories of his childhood, which was a part of his life that he'd really rather not think about at the moment. Or later. Or ever. "Anyway." He swallowed, then set his jaw. "I'm not a glutton."

Dean sighed through his nose, then said, "Everybody's a glutton, Sam. Everybody likes to eat." Sam opened his mouth. Dean kept going before he could even start. "And you're worse than a lot of us, considering how you _glutted_ yourself even when I wasn't around. I saw how swollen your stomach was at the end of every day that I sent something to you at work."

Sam's temper flared. "I'm not normally like that," he growled. "I never have been. Wherever you're getting this stuff...you must be having them put something in it. Appetite enhancers or - or something."

"You think I'm drugging your food so that you'll eat more," Dean stated dryly. "Do you have any idea how insane you sound right now?"

"You've been fucking with me and my health because, for some sick reason, you get off on me getting fat!" Sam shot back. "How is that remotely sane?"

"Okay. Dean put up both of his hands in a "time out" gesture. "You obviously have no idea what's actually going on here."

"I know that you somehow think it's okay to use your subordinates like sex toys." Sam clapped a hand to his mouth to keep himself from burping. He wouldn't give Dean the satisfaction.

"No." Dean leaned forward, clearly frustrated. "I - "

"I just - I don't wanna hear it, Dean." Sam wasn't sure who he was angrier with - Dean, for doing this to him, treating him like he had, or himself for completely falling for it and being oblivious to what was happening to him. "Just leave me alone."

He moved again, just wanting to get further away from Dean and turn his back on him. He knew that it'd been a bad idea almost the second that he did it. He'd been holding his belly steady as he scooted and turned, but that didn't seem to make much of a difference. Especially when he brushed against the arm of the couch. Even that slight touch, combined with the movement, was enough to make his cramps about a million times worse.

He cried out in agony, hunching up, pulling his knees towards his face. That didn't do anything, and might have even made it worse, just like clamping his hands down and squeezing his stomach did. His eyes were squeezed shut, he was panting heavily between whimpers he just couldn't keep in. Sam had gotten into a lot of fights in elementary school, fights that he'd almost always lost and which ended with one of his opponents holding his arms behind his back while the others took turns punching him in the stomach. This was worse.

"What'd I just tell you? Like, not even five minutes ago?" Dean was next to him, and Sam really had no idea how that'd happened, since he hadn't noticed him moving. He put a hand on his shoulder and another on his chest, and began to guide him into a new position. Very, very slowly, and as Dean laid him down, it didn't make his pain worse at all. Sam groaned anyway. Dean stroked his bangs out of his face. "Yeah, I know that you're hurting. I'm going to make you feel better, though."

Dean put his hands on him, on the embarrassingly-sharp curve of his belly, and began to rub again. He was more thorough this time, moving in patterns and using every part of his hands. Sam kept his eyes closed and his face defiantly turned away, but as his pain faded, he became slowly aware of the position that they were in right now. He was on his back, head on the heavily-padded arm of the couch, legs spread, and hands placed protectively on the rounded flanks of his stomach. Dean had one knee planted between his thighs, nowhere near his crotch, and his other foot was on the floor. He was leaning over him, intent on his engorged middle.

Sam could feel the contents of it slosh a little every time that Dean rolled his wrists, and he sucked on the inside of his lower lip as he hoped that he couldn't feel it and wondered just why the hell he himself found it so arousing.

He hoped that Dean could feel that, either. Or see it.

"I know you're not happy right now, but that doesn't mean that you don't still have to take care of yourself," Dean spoke up after awhile. "And your belly."

"Luckily, you know how to do it for me," Sam replied. "What a coincidence." He tried to sound bitter, but he just couldn't quite manage it. His anger had faded with the pain, and he was sleepy and relaxed again, much more docile under Dean's hands than he wanted to be. This couch was incredibly comfortable, but of course Dean could afford the very best.

Dean heaved a sigh. He was silent for a few minutes, just focusing on soothing Sam's belly. Then he cleared his throat, and quietly said, "You're the first person I've ever done this for."

"So I'm your experiment," Sam stated. He yawned without thinking about the message that it might send.

"No. You're not," Dean said. It sounded like he was shaking his head. "I don't see you as an experiment, or a toy, or an escort, or anything else that you've been accusing me of." He laughed, breathlessly and humorlessly. "You're just angry, aren't you? Suspicious of everybody?"

"I had a reason with you." Sam reached up and rubbed at his face, grimacing.

"No, you really didn't," Dean corrected. "And considering that I'm the only thing keeping you from screaming like somebody's cutting your leg off, I think that you should listen to me explain why that is. Instead of yelling at me every time that I open my mouth."

Sam opened his eyes and glared at Dean, but didn't say anything, because he had a point. Unfortunately.

"I'd be lying if I said that I didn't like this," Dean began, looking down at Sam's stomach as he worked the flesh right underneath his ribcage. "Watching you eat, seeing you this full, knowing that you're gaining weight. But it's not for the reason that you think. It's not a fetish." Sam had been opening his mouth to spit something caustic at Dean, but he grudgingly closed it after that. "I like it because you look comfortable with a full stomach, and with extra weight on you. You look like somebody's taking care of you, and before you, you just...you really looked like you were on your own."

"And now I've got you?" Sam asked. He'd turned his head, so he could only see Dean with one eye now. He watched him closely with it, though.

"I'm really hoping," Dean replied. "The first time I saw you, I didn't think about how good-looking you were, or how much I would've liked to get you into bed. The first thing that hit me was how badly I wanted to make you happy and keep you safe. I wanted to protect you. I wanted to take care of you. It was like I'd known you all my life, and that was...my job. Way more important than what I do for Sandover."

Sam turned his head again, so that he could look at Dean with both eyes. When he was done, he said, "I've never even talked to you before today."

"I know that. Trust me, I definitely would have remembered you," Dean said, looking up at Sam. "That doesn't change the fact that you did something to me. I don't even know what I'm feeling when I look at you, but it's good, and I know that it runs deep. I...fell for you, months ago, and it was probably a bad idea to wait so long to tell you."

Sam bit back his immediate response of "You think?" Instead, he said, "So...all the food? Was that you 'taking care of me'?"

Dean shook his head. "No. Not at first, anyway." He sighed, and looked down at Sam's stomach again. It gurgled in response to all of the attention that he was giving it, and Sam was sure that it sounded almost pleased. His own stomach seemed to like Dean more than it liked Sam himself. He felt a little betrayed. "The first one...it was just supposed to give me an excuse to talk to you. I really thought about flowers, but pastries just seemed like a better idea to me. Less...blatantly obvious." He smirked at Sam's navel. "Then I saw how much you liked it. I gave you another one. And another one, and another one. Every time I saw you after work, and you were stuffed full, I wanted to go over and say something about how good you looked. Hell, I wanted to rub your belly, so that you'd look at me like you are right now."

Sam blushed fiercely and looked away, glaring at the back of the couch, and Dean laughed.

"I told you why I liked you putting on weight." Dean's voice was soft. "I called you up today because we're gonna be in the middle of the holidays in a month or so, and I don't want you to be alone for those. And if you don't believe that, then _I_ don't want to be alone for those. I haven't had anybody since I left my family. And I'm just going to guess that you're the same."

Sam sighed through his nose, and closed his eyes briefly as he said, "I had a fiancee. Before I moved here."

For the first time, Dean's hands stopped moving on Sam's belly. "'Had'?"

"We broke up," Sam explained. "Doesn't really matter why. There were lots of reasons."

"Was one of them that you like other men?" Dean asked, and Sam could hear the smirk in his voice.

"No!" Sam snapped. "I like - I like girls, too. That didn't have anything to do with it." He threw a forearm over his eyes, then said, "I don't see why I should give you all the details, though."

"No," Dean agreed. "Why should you trust me? In your eyes, I haven't done anything but hurt you."

Sam swallowed. "I don't know what to think about that right now." Everything Dean had said to him made an uncomfortable amount of sense. He had no idea why it sounded so plausible, since almost all of it would have made his skin crawl coming from anyone but the man in front of him.

Dean smiled. "Then I guess I'm making progress. But I think that a lot of people have hurt you before."

"Why d'you think that?" Sam kept his voice neutral.

"Well, there're about a million behavioral indicators that I could rattle off to you right now," Dean said, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Even though most people probably think that you're a really friendly, empathetic guy. But there are more obvious signs." He reached up and grabbed Sam's arm, now resting on his forehead, and pulled it down. Sam closed his eyes when he touched a scar on his forearm, halfway between his wrist and his elbow. It was raised, silvery, born of a wound that had been neatly opened with a blade more than a few times.

"That's not what you think it is," Sam murmured, face aimed away from Dean.

"I know it's not. Too high, too deep, too neat, too...horizontal," Dean replied. "And too recent."

His hand traveled up. He touched three feather-light scars on Sam's face, lines scored across his cheek. They were invisible except in exactly the right light. He touched one on his forehead, his chin, a scar on his neck, one on his other arm. He ran the fingertips of both hands across the ones that dotted Sam's abdomen. Sam had experiences with being used, as his vague memories of addiction and a girl named Ruby proved. And he just couldn't quite make himself believe that someone who only wanted him for sex would touch him so gently, or with such reverence.

"Where are you from, Sam?" When Dean spoke, it was so unexpected that Sam almost jumped. Only the fact that he was still moving his hands stopped him from doing so. He was still feeling out all of his scars, stretched and misshapen because of how full he was.

"Kansas," he answered, looking up at the ceiling. He could barely hear his own voice, but Dean seemed to be able to detect it just fine.

"You don't sound like it."

"I didn't grow up there," Sam replied. He took his hands off of his stomach, laced his fingers together on his chest. "My dad and I moved around a lot. I was a magnet for trouble, I was proud, I didn't back down easily - I got into more fights than I can count. That's what most of all...these..." He gestured to himself as a whole. "...come from."

"People have tried to kill you." It wasn't a question. Sam didn't take it as one.

"Not recently," he said. "I've gotten a little better at staying out of trouble."

"Well, thank god." Dean was rubbing again, not just touching. Sam was grateful for it. "I've got no idea what our customers would do if they couldn't call you every five minutes."

Sam grimaced, then sighed. "Please tell me that I'm not gonna be working phones this new job that you've been talking about."

"You won't be dealing with customers," Dean assured. "We want you to cut deals with other companies. You'll be selling, not supporting." He offered Sam a smile. "I think you'll be good at it. You're good with people."

Sam closed his eyes again instead of answering, reveling in how warm Dean's hands felt against him. One of them wrapped around his wrist all of a sudden, getting his attention.

"You ready to go to sleep?" Dean asked. Sam hesitated, then pushed himself up on his elbows. He felt Dean tense, and was sure that he was worried about him hurting himself again, but he was fine.

"No, I...I'm not tired," Sam said, which was the truth. He was sleepy, but not tired.

"Are you sure?" Dean asked, leaning closer. "I don't want to keep bothering you if you..." He trailed off (he kind of had to, Sam thought) when Sam pushed himself up a little higher and pressed his lips against Dean's. He didn't open his mouth, and he broke it fairly quickly, laying back down. But Dean looked just as pleasantly surprised as if it'd lasted ten minutes.

"So...does this mean that you believe me?" he asked after a couple of seconds, smiling again. He looked happy, relaxed. Relieved. "You're not going to freak out about me touching you?"

"I'm drunk," Sam replied, arching the small of his back. "You got me drunk."

Dean laughed. "You're not drunk. You drank less than I did, Sammy."

"Yeah...okay. Whatever." Sam stretched with a deep exhale, then said, "Don't call me that."

"You keep saying that," Dean noted. His voice was soft. "Is there any reason you don't like that nickname?"

"It's just..." Sam swallowed. "'S what my dad called me."

Dean didn't say anything. He just looked down at him, didn't ask about his relationship with his father, didn't make a single comment. But Sam somehow got the feeling that they were going to discuss it in the future, when they knew each other better - because he was definitely going to be spending a lot of time with Dean. He knew that, as innately as he'd known that he wasn't going to spend the rest of his life wearing a yellow shirt and answering phones.

"D'you have anything sweet?" Sam asked, changing the subject. He felt safe here, like it didn't matter at all if he ate more, even with how full he already was. He was sure Dean wouldn't judge him. He'd been assured that he wasn't fueling some twisted fantasy of his by eating, and he believed him. Deeply. Even if he didn't think that it'd be a good idea to tell him right now. "Like, uh...chocolate? Ice cream? Just something small."

Dean laughed, and gave Sam's stomach an appreciative pat. "Do you think you have more room?"

"Well...I've digested a little bit, haven't I?" Sam defended himself. "I just need something to balance out the lasagna and the breadsticks."

"I understand," Dean said with a nod. "I think I have something." He finally moved out of his awkward position, standing up and stretching. He'd left his jacket at the door, so Sam could see his nipples, startlingly dark and erect, under the thin fabric of his shirt as it was pulled taut against his chest. It didn't feel particularly cold in the apartment, but Sam was probably padded much better than Dean was. "But if you're going to eat, you need to sit up."

Sam groaned as loudly as he could. "Dean, no."

"Dean, yes." Dean grabbed his arm and his shoulder, and started moving him again. "Do you want to choke? Think about it."

"Mm." Sam helped as much as he could, and spread his legs wide once he was sitting up again. Dean vanished into the kitchen. Sam heard him get a dish out, then a piece of silverware, and then he opened the fridge. He came back a minute later with a slice of tiramisu on a plate. It looked oddly familiar to Sam, and his mouth caught on before his mind did. "You - everything you sent - "

"Yeah," Dean said, sounding guilty and proud at the same time. "I made it." He sat down and put the plate in Sam's hands, then said, "And no, I didn't put anything in it. I just thought that I could do better than a bakery - and that it would be less expensive, too."

"Wow," Sam said. He didn't know what else to say.

"Are you mad?" Dean asked calmly. Sam couldn't blame him for wanting to make sure; it'd been a turbulent evening.

"Of course not," Sam said. "Every time I want my favorite dessert, I don't even have to pay for it." He said it jokingly, but part of him hoped that Dean would reject it. Having sweets at his fingertips every time that he craved them would send his weight sky-high.

Dean laughed. From the bright, energetic look on his face, Sam guessed that he had taken the statement to mean that Sam was already envisioning a long-term relationship between them. "I have to admit," he said, "I'm really looking forward to cooking for you and having you know for a fact that it's me behind the food." He smiled. "I'll make you whatever you want."

Sam dug his fork into the cake and lifted the first bite to his mouth. Sponge cake, espresso, mascarpone, powdered chocolate. It was just as good as he remembered it being. Or, if he was honest, it was even better.

He got through two slices of tiramisu by himself. It was good enough to make him forget all about the enormous dinner that he'd had, and the caffeine in it woke him up. As he was eating, he pressed himself into Dean without thinking about it, and Dean obviously didn't mind. They were snuggled together on the couch, Dean with one arm around Sam, Sam with his head resting on Dean's shoulder. Sam ate, blissful, and Dean massaged his belly in slow, deep circles. He didn't feel any pain as his stomach expanded further, stretching with every bite that dropped into it. They nuzzled and kissed, and if Sam had had any doubts that Dean cared about him, they were gone by the end of that second slice.

"More?" Dean asked, taking the empty plate from Sam's unprotesting hands. Sam sighed, then hiccuped, making himself blush.

"I don't know, Dean...I'm pretty full," he murmured. Which was true. But it was also true that he was having some pretty weird urges right now. He wanted to eat until there was just no physical way that he could manage another bite. He wanted to see how much food that consisted of, how big he could make himself, how heavy his stomach could get. He had to be at least a little drunk right now, because he was actually getting turned on by the feeling of his own swollen, bloated middle - not to mention the idea of it getting even larger.

"Well, how about this. I'll get you another slice, and I'll help you with it."

"That'd work."

When Dean had said that he would "help" with the third slice, Sam had assumed that that had meant that he would eat part of it. Not that he would feed it to him. But there was something so deliciously intimate about it that he didn't say a word, just cuddled closer to Dean and his incredible hands and obediently opened his mouth for every single bite. Dean feeding him meant that he couldn't rub his stomach, but he took over that job himself. This just made sense. Dean had basically been feeding his belly, cultivating it, for months, and now he was finally feeding it directly.

Even Sam's love handles felt larger, tighter. Like all the space in his stomach had been filled up, so now the food was settling in new areas. When he looked at himself, his skin was shiny, going pink. And that was before Dean decided that he must be thirsty and went to get milk out of the fridge.

"Uhhhh..." Arms draped along the back of the couch and head tipped back, Sam blinked foggily up at the ceiling. He'd spread out, distributing his weight as evenly as he could - he thought that he was too full to cuddle. No matter how much he might want to.

"Sam." Dean's full lips brushed his neck, and his hand ghosted over the skin of his belly. "I can't believe this. Are you even human?"

For some reason, the question set the skin between Sam's shoulder blades crawling, but he mentally brushed it off.

"Not that surprising," he murmured, before hiccuping again. "I'm...six-four, over two hundred pounds, been stuffing myself every day for months. Of course I have a decent capacity."

"This isn't decent, though," Dean replied. "This is incredible." He paused. "Does it...feel good?"

Sam hesitated before answering. He was sure that Dean had asked the question to make sure that he wasn't in any pain, but the truth was that it felt great. It hurt a little, of course, but mostly, all he could feel was overwhelming fullness. And that was shockingly satisfying. He was comfortable, warm, completely sated. He wasn't sure that he could move right now even if he wanted to, and even that was pleasant. Dean's touch, his presence, was very welcome, and all Sam really wanted to do was fall asleep next to him.

"Yes," he finally admitted. What could it hurt?

"Good. I think I might have some Pepto-Bismol somewhere, but it's so old that it'd probably make things worse if I had to give it to you," Dean said. Sam smiled at the ceiling. "You're amazing. I've seen you full before, but this...you're at your limits, aren't you?" When Sam nodded, he went on. "How long have you wanted to do this?"

"Um..." Sam raised his head to look down at Dean, eyebrows drawing together. "What do you mean?"

"How long have you wanted to eat as much as you can hold?" Dean clarified softly. He still had a hand on Sam's stomach, and he was stroking it almost lovingly, like it was a dog or a cat that he'd raised from a newborn.

"I don't know." Since about an hour ago. "I've never really thought about it, I guess."

Dean chuckled. "Yeah, of course not." He stood up, and Sam lowered his head again as he heard him cleaning the coffee table off, gathering up all of the dishes that they had used and taking them to the kitchen. He slipped off his shoes, and Sam listened to him padding forward and then sinking to his knees. He couldn't imagine what he was doing, then he realized that soft, warm lips, as full as those of a woman, were pressed against the skin of his belly. Right below his navel.

He raised his head and blinked down at Dean. What he could see of him over his stomach, at least. He reached down and felt thick, close-cropped hair against his palm.

"I'm not pregnant, Dean," he murmured. "Just fat."

Dean straightened up, putting both of his hands on Sam's belly and grinning at him. "You're not fat," he reminded. "But you will be, if you keep eating like this - and you have to, since you seem to enjoy it so much." He kissed his stomach again. "I'm not trying to offend you, I'm not making fun of you. But...I'm going to say that we'll be able to consider you officially fat by Christmas. Fat and happy."

His voice was still gentle, and Sam could hear real affection in it. As well as pleasure and excitement. That would have made him angry a few hours ago, but right now, he just couldn't muster it. He couldn't even manage to sound accusatory when he said, "You like this...it turns you on. It has to."

Dean used Sam's knees to push himself to his feet, then sat down next to him on the couch again. He offered him a smile, leaning up so he could see him, and took one of his hands. Sam squeezed.

"It might turn me on," he said, "but it's definitely not a fetish or a kink. At least, it's not _just_ a fetish or a kink, because there's way more to it than the sexual aspect." He leaned against Sam with a sigh, and said, "Besides. It's not like it doesn't turn you on, too."

Sam closed his eyes, a light blush tingling across his face. "You...saw that, huh?"

"It was hard to miss," Dean said, and Sam chuckled despite himself. "But anyway. I know that you're probably sleepy right now, and you just want me to shut up, we need to have a talk."

"Uh, yeah." Sam might be so glutted on good food right now that even talking was an effort, but he still felt the urge to shrink in on himself when he thought about what he wanted to tell Dean. What he was going to ask him to do.

"I probably should have brought this up before now...but I guess there's not much I can do about it, huh?" Dean didn't wait for an answer before continuing. "I'm going to guess that you've been a fairly fit guy for most of your life. You've been completely in control of your body. You watched what you ate, you exercised regularly."

"You could make some good money as a mind reader," Sam murmured, giving Dean a soft smile that was almost immediately returned.

"You don't like gaining weight," Dean went on. "I can tell - you're embarrassed about it, and it makes you uncomfortable. Because you don't want all that hard work to go to waste."

Sam sighed through his nose, but didn't say anything. He'd been fighting for a lean, powerful body for longer than Dean probably knew. One of his clearest memories of his father came from when he was eight or nine years old, grimly doing pushups on the filthy carpet of a motel room as the older man critiqued his form. His upbringing had been all about strength - the strength to defend himself from a world so cruel that it had burned a woman alive six months after she and her husband had had their first child. The strength to not crawl into a bottle because of that. Like John himself had done.

"But I'm a businessman," Dean said. "So let me make my pitch, because that's what I do." He grinned at Sam's chuckle, then went on. "There's no reason for you to be totally in shape right now; or ever again, for that matter. You're going to be working a sedentary office job. You're not on any kind of sports team, and you don't have any outdoors-y hobbies. You haven't even been to the gym in a few months. You do use the company one, right?"

"Yeah." Sam decided not to even ask how he knew that. "I have a reason, though." A dull ache started up along the side of his belly. He began to rub it, but Dean took over for him within a few seconds, and he certainly wasn't going to complain about that.

"Your knee hurts, doesn't it?" Dean asked, tapping the one that had been bothering Sam lately with his free hand. "You've been favoring it all night."

Sam regarded Dean for a few seconds, then tipped his head back into its original position and declared, "You're creepy."

Dean just laughed, then said, "I'm sorry. I just can't _not_ notice things like that, you know?" He paused, then added, "Especially with you."

Hyperawareness of their surroundings at all times. And of each other. Looked like they had another thing in common.

"I can think of a good reason to stay in shape," Sam said, closing his eyes as he changed the subject back.

"Yeah?" Dean asked.

"Yeah." With monumental effort, Sam shifted himself closer to him. So that I'll have an extra twenty years or so with you."

Dean chuckled, then kissed Sam's exposed throat, choosing to murmur against the stubbled skin when he spoke instead of pulling away. "The weight that you've gained shouldn't be putting too much of a strain on you. You're young and strong, and I technically haven't fed you anything unhealthy. No preservatives, no additives, everything's all-natural. Just so long as we're careful about what you eat, then I think that you'll be just fine."

Sam had to admit that that actually made a lot of sense - everything that he'd read about obesity seemed to suggest that most health problems came from chemicals in processed sugars and transfats. It certainly made a difference if Dean hadn't been using any of those (though he probably shouldn't tell him about his frequent vending machine binges if he didn't already know; and he should also try not to do that anymore for his own sake), and Sam was sure that he wouldn't object in the slightest if Sam wanted to talk about his diet with a nutritionist or visit a doctor frequently to make sure that his lungs and heart and everything else were okay.

Dean didn't want to hurt him, and wouldn't put his own pleasure or fantasies before Sam's feelings. He was sure about that.

"You like eating like this," Dean reminded him softly. 

Sam swallowed, then said, "You're right. I like it. And you've sold me on everything else." He grinned. "You're definitely a businessman."

"So are you," Dean pointed out. "Starting on Monday, at least."

They were both silent for several minutes, the quiet between them warm and comfortable. Sam was seriously considering just letting himself fall asleep like this, but he forced his head back up in order to look at Dean. Dean blinked at him, then laughed a little.

"I thought you'd dozed off," he said, his voice unmistakably fond. "Do you need something?"

"Not really." Sam's tongue felt thick and clumsy in his mouth. He wondered if he was in any shape to be discussing this, then decided that he was. He wasn't drunk, after all. Just overwhelmed with food and happiness and Dean. "There was just something else that I wanted to talk about."

"We didn't cover everything?" Dean asked with a smile.

"No, I think that...we did pretty good, actually," Sam replied. Talking was getting easier the more he did it. "We hammered out a lot of really important details. You...made me trust you." He felt his face warm up. "There's just one more thing that I want us to go over. Something important."

"Yeah?" Dean sounded interested. He was leaning in close to Sam, and he was still rubbing his belly, and Sam felt like some sort of cherished pet once again. It wasn't a negative sensation. It was knowing that he'd never be abandoned, that his every need would be met, that he'd never have to face the kind of pain that he was used to ever again.

Sam had meant to continue. He really had. But before he could put his thoughts in order so that he could say them out loud, he suddenly realized just how very attractive the man sitting next to him was. Dirty blond hair, a rich golden-brown even in the harsh fluorescent lighting of the apartment, thick and lush despite how short it'd been cut. Large, bright, devastatingly-intelligent green eyes that were so expressive Sam felt like he could read Dean's thoughts - when he wanted him to. Freckles sprayed across the skin of his nose and upper cheeks, a shade paler than Sam's own, in a pastel rainbow of pink, brown, and orange.

And those freaking _lips_ of his. Sam could have written novels about Dean's lips. Anthologies. Epics.

"So...?" Dean's hand paused, cupping the underside of Sam's belly. "What is it, Sammy?"

It was obvious that he'd just forgotten that he'd asked him not to call him that, because he shook his head and opened his mouth to apologize almost as soon as he'd spoken. But right then, Dean calling him "Sammy" seemed absolutely perfect. It didn't make him think of his father. It didn't make him grimace. It just brought him forward so that he could lock his mouth to Dean's, and put a strong arm around him, and coax his lips apart.

Dean tasted like tiramisu; he must have snagged a few bites for himself while Sam wasn't paying attention. He gave him a warm, yielding welcome, gently taking control of the kiss over a matter of seconds. Sam was just fine with that. He might have been the one to initiate it, but he wanted Dean to lead. Dean was unquestionably in charge. They might be equals in the workplace now, but here, Dean was going to take care of him.

The kiss broke, but they were back together almost immediately, and Sam gasped into Dean's open mouth when a hand was placed on the back of his head to hold him in place. Dean was definitely into this, that much was clear. And yet Sam could tell that he was still feeling him out to make sure that he wasn't uncomfortable or ready to stop. He wasn't, and he wasn't going to be. So every time that Dean touched him tentatively, he pushed back against him with all the eagerness that he could muster, and made soft noises of pleasure.

He had never been the submissive partner in a relationship before. But he liked being guided, led. And he especially liked the way Dean did it.

Pretty soon, Dean's feeling out changed a little. He wasn't focusing on making sure that Sam was okay with the entirety of their hot, wet, messy makeout session - just one aspect of it. Specifically, how he was touching his stomach. His hands were feather-light on the taut skin as he explored, sending equally-light bursts of arousal to Sam's groin.

"Harder," he demanded, when they pulled apart to gasp for air like fish out of water. His voice was breathless. "Rub..." He put his free hand over one of Dean's. "...harder. Please."

"You're so full," Dean replied, and Sam was sure that he could hear a note of reverence in his voice as he said that. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't," Sam assured. Another heated kiss occurred before he added, "It feels good. Trust me."

His full stomach was an erogenous zone. Or, to be more accurate, his full stomach was an erogenous zone when Dean was touching it. Sam supposed that that made sense, considering how sensitive it was and how he felt about Dean. Not to mention the way that Dean was touching it...it was the closest thing to a handjob Sam had ever felt above the waist.

Dean did what he wanted him to, and Sam started moaning and crying out into their kisses. Some spots, he quickly realized, felt better than others when they were touched, and Dean seemed to pick up on that.

"Have you always - ?" Dean asked, kneading the soft cushion of pudge right below Sam's navel. It had somehow avoided being stretched out into nothing by how full he was like the rest of his belly fat.

"No. No," Sam panted, shaking his head. "Just now."

"Maybe it's because you ate so much tonight," Dean suggested.

"Maybe," Sam agreed.

"You're _huge_ right now," Dean said, admiringly, before giving the side of Sam's neck a loving nip. Sam shuddered, and moaned loudly. He wasn't trying to hold anything back anymore. "You like that?"

"I think I like that you like it," Sam replied honestly. Something in him just wanted to make Dean happy. That kind of subservience was an unfamiliar feeling, but not necessarily unpleasant.

"Interesting." Dean didn't say anything for awhile after that, and neither did Sam. They didn't need to. Holding each other, kissing, touching, pressing, rubbing...Sam had never had a partner who met his needs so well. He felt like he'd known Dean for years. No, more than that, he felt like Dean had been made for him. Or vice versa. Sam wanted to tell him that, but he was sure that words would fall short of what Dean needed to understand, so he just did his best to show him instead. Dean returned the favor. He slipped a hand under Sam's swollen stomach, running his fingernails over the warm skin and fine hair there, and Sam jumped. Then hiccuped. Dean laughed and planted another kiss on his lips.

"So full," he murmured. Yet another kiss - but this one was dropped onto his belly instead of his mouth. "So well-fed."

Sam could have argued that he was very obviously overfed, but instead, he said, "You can't be comfortable right there. You have to reach over, you're twisted up. Move, if you want to."

Despite that encouragement, it took a few more minutes of kissing to get Dean to change his position. He swung a leg over Sam's and straddled his thighs - the section of them that wasn't covered by a stuffed belly, at least. He pressed closer to him so that they could keep kissing, and Sam could feel his hardness digging into his stomach. Even contained by his suit pants and whatever underwear he was wearing, his size was enough to impress Sam. Granted, most of his experience with cock size had come from his own, but still. Dean had to be close to him. And Sam had been assured that he was larger than average.

Dean's hands were on either side of his belly, rubbing small circles, but as they began to kiss again, work out a new rhythm, they slowly crept back. Onto the soft rolls of Sam's love handles. He squeezed them, rubbed them, kneaded them, and groaned against Sam's lips as he assessed their size. He also started to move his hips, and Sam was sure that that happened without him noticing. Tiny little motions, him grinding gently into Sam's stomach, sending arrows of pleasure through him that made him squirm with the need for more.

"Chubby," Dean murmured, still fascinated with Sam's love handles.

"Chubby," Sam agreed, panting.

"You're just spilling out of your clothes, aren't you?" A pause, for some nuzzling that would have made Sam weak in the knees if he'd been standing. "You need bigger ones. You've gone up at least three sizes."

Sam sighed heavily. "Yeah, probably. They've been tight for awhile now. I just..."

"You were embarrassed. I know." Dean smiled. Sam felt like he was watching rainclouds part. "I'm taking you shopping tomorrow."

Sam laughed. "Let me guess. After you feed me a huge breakfast?" The prospect didn't frighten or disgust him in the slightest.

Dean grinned. "You can't go shopping on an empty stomach, Sam."

Sam had never particularly enjoyed shopping for clothes, seeing it as a mundane necessity. Like shaving. But he would have had to head out even if he hadn't gained weight, since the dress code was a little more formal at Dean's level and he only owned one (very cheap) suit. And he had the feeling that he was going to enjoy shopping with Dean. He'd enjoy doing anything with him, honestly.

He was definitely enjoying what they were doing right now. Dean seemed to be done talking for the moment, though he was still worshiping Sam's budding love handles with his hands, and he was still rolling his hips in a slow, instinctive rhythm as they kissed each other breathless. Sam hadn't even realized how hard his months-long dry spell had been on him until someone finally touched him again.

For the first time since he'd finished, Sam actually regretted eating as much as he had. If he'd just stopped after the lasagna, he wouldn't be so heavy right now, and he could have made it to the bedroom. Let Dean peel off his too-tight uniform, settle his swollen belly onto the soft, padded comforter that he was sure covered Dean's bed, and raise his round ass as high as he could as he bared himself for the man he was almost positive he was falling in love with.

Sam whined in the back of his throat, the idea of going to bed with Dean even more appealing now than it had been fifteen minutes ago. He put his hands on Dean's hips, meaning to pull him closer to himself and encourage him to buck harder. But, instead, Dean stopped moving, looking up at him with anxious green eyes.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I didn't even realize that I was doing that..." He was blushing, and Sam loved it. His cock twitched in his slacks. "Did I hurt you?"

 _"No,"_ Sam asserted. He reached up, cupping the side of Dean's jaw and pulling him in for a fevered kiss. "No. Dean, it feels so good. Please. I need it."

Dean blinked, after the kiss, and and began, "You want me to - "

Sam nodded quickly, then said, "I kind of owe you. For yelling at you like I did earlier."

Dean looked down at Sam's stomach, not answering at first. Sam couldn't really read his face, especially with his head lowered like it was, but he thought that he was troubled. Dean put a hand on top of his belly and made eye contact with him after a few moments of silence.

"I don't want you to...submit to me just because you feel like you owe me something," he said. "Especially with how freaked out you were earlier about the two of us sleeping together."

Sam listened, and almost laughed, because Dean was so...maybe the the word was "chivalrous." Every single one of Sam's outbursts tonight had been misplaced - he'd completely failed to understand that Dean was nothing like the man he'd thought he was. He went out of his way to avoid using him or taking advantage of him. He respected him. He actually cared for him, and if he didn't, then he was the best actor Sam had ever seen, and work that hard deserved admiration in and of itself. All of that, combined with Sam's pleasure and his need for release, just made his conviction that much stronger.

"Okay," he agreed. "Then, let me put it like this." He laid a hand over Dean's on his stomach. "I'm gonna submit because having your hands on me and kissing you has turned me on beyond belief, because I haven't had sex in months, and because I feel totally safe with you. I know that you're not gonna hurt me, and I know that the fact that I put out on our first date isn't going to make it out of his apartment."

Dean grinned. He was gently petting the bare skin of Sam's belly, thumbing every scar that he came across with the same tenderness that had coaxed Sam into trust him so much in the first place.

"I'm flattered," he said softly. "And if I thought that I could get you up without making you sick, I'd take you into the bedroom right now, and do my best to give you something that was worth waiting months for." He kissed Sam again. But not on the mouth - on the mole right next to his nose. It was unexpected, but he couldn't say that he didn't like it. "But I know I can't. So I think that what you really need here is just to get some relief so that you can lay down with me and sleep all of this off." He patted his stomach. "So...you don't have to worry about 'submitting'."

Before Sam could figure out what he meant by that, Dean let go of him and slipped off of his lap. Putting a hand on each of Sam's knees, he easily spread his legs before dropping to the ground between them. He reached for the zipper of Sam's slacks, but Sam shook his head and grabbed Dean's wrist before he could touch him.

"Oh...Dean," he said, shaking his head. "No. You...you don't have to do that."

Dean laughed. "I know how to do this," he said with a warm smile. "I'm not going to bite you."

"That isn't what I'm worried about," Sam said. Without any warning, he hiccuped, but Dean didn't react to it, so neither did Sam. "It's just...you're not..."

"Hey." Dean pulled his arm out of Sam's loose grip, and placed his hand on his thigh. "We're _equals_ here. I want us to be equals, even if it might not seem like it right now. So, if it really bothers you..." He brushed his lips across Sam's belly once again. "Then you can return the favor someday soon."

That made sense to Sam. And this was what he'd wanted - sort of, at least. So he didn't protest when Dean tugged the zipper of his slacks down, pushed his taut stomach up just a little bit in order to give himself more room, and then pulled the waistband of his boxers down. So that he spilled out, finally unrestricted by the cotton.

"Fuck, Sam," Dean said.

Sam did his best to peer around his stomach, unable to imagine what was wrong. "What is it?"

Dean straightened up and grinned at him, before saying, "You're just very...proportional." He glanced back down. "Not that I was really expecting anything else." Sam closed his eyes with a pleased shudder as Dean ran a fingertip up the underside of his aching cock. His fingernails were clipped to the perfect length for it. But of course they were. "You're going to have to bear with me if I go a little slow. This is probably going to be the biggest thing I've ever had in my mouth."

Sam blushed furiously. He could actually feel the blood rushing into his face, his heart thundering in his chest with a combination of embarrassment and pleasure. He swiped a hand over his eyes, relieved only by the fact that Dean couldn't see him right now. Between his cock and his belly, he was surprised that he had any blood left over to blush with.

Sam doubted that he was the biggest guy Dean had ever been with. He couldn't be, with the amount of experience that Dean seemed to have when it came to gay sex - and with his lips. But that didn't mean that the compliment about his size hadn't felt good.

He heard the rustling of fabric, then a zipper being undone. Dean was probably taking himself out, which Sam didn't mind at all, because he had to need an orgasm just as bad as Sam himself did. His hips moved a little, and Sam felt hot breath against his head. Right before he felt a hot tongue against it. He moaned, and Dean's other hand crept up to caress the side of his belly and one of his love handles as he licked slowly and thoroughly down his shaft.

They were wide strokes, dripping wet, and he kept his tongue soft as he worked. There were no sounds in the apartment but Sam's frequent moans, soft slurping noises, and the skin-on-skin pulse of Dean's hand and cock. Sam was positive that he wasn't going to last. Not with Dean's tongue on his member, and Dean's hand on his stomach, and the sounds of Dean jerking himself off in his ears. But he forced himself to hold back. He didn't want Dean to think that he was a quick shot.

Dean's mouth closed around him, and the soft noises of masturbation sped up. Sam groaned, tipping his head back and panting into the air. He couldn't help wondering how many other guys Dean had done this for, considering that he was _really_ good at it. Working his tongue and lips against Sam at the same time, keeping his teeth completely out of the equation, bobbing his head languidly, hollowing his cheeks and beginning to suck. His hair brushed against the underside of Sam's belly with every movement. He dug the heel of his hand into Sam's plush, rounded flank. He made a sound around him, one of appreciation or pleasure or both, and Sam gasped his name.

He really wished that there were more he could do for Dean. To make him feel good. But there was no way he could manage a sixty-nine position right now, and that was the only way he'd be able to get close enough to him to make any real difference.

With no warning at all, Dean suddenly shot forward like a striking rattlesnake, and took Sam all the way to the hilt. Sam shouted, and probably would have thrust into his mouth if he'd been able to move. He could feel the muscles of Dean's throat fluttering around him, a repressed gag reflex. Dean stayed there for a couple of seconds, as if just savoring the feeling of having Sam's full length inside of his body. Then he pulled all the way back, pillow lips pressed against Sam's tip, teasingly, and did it all over again.

And again, and again, and again. Dean moaned around Sam, drooled down his balls when he took all of him, sucked precome out of his slit. Every single one of Sam's exhales was a noise of pure ecstasy now - or Dean's name, that was fairly common, too. There was no way that it could get better. Sam could feel the pressure building in him, his climax approaching, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

Dean pulled his mouth off him. From the sound and the feel, it was sloppy, leaving behind a lot of rapidly-cooling saliva. Sam could have screamed. Right up until the second that Dean pressed his face against his belly, nuzzling into the fat and the food with a deep, throaty purr. He felt his mouth, lips wet and swollen, against his skin, and knew that he was being kissed, nipped, worshiped. Dean's hand pressed into the softness of his love handle, like sinking into a pillow, and slowly trailed down in order to explore as much of his ass as he could reach. Sam could believe, for the very first time, that every pound on him was beautiful.

He trembled. He'd never been loved like this before, and he'd never felt anything so strong for someone else.

Dean left his stomach alone after a little while and returned his mouth to Sam's cock. He also took his hand off of his middle and started using it to fondle and knead at his balls, slick with his spit. Needless to say, that was the end of any resolution Sam had to keep himself from coming.

Sam got Dean's name out once, but the rest of the time, it was just meaningless shouting. It felt way too good for him to be able to form coherent words. He had the presence of mind to hold his belly steady so that he wouldn't throw up, because he was moving now, bucking with all the force that he could muster as he spilled his seed in Dean's willing mouth. He could feel him swallowing every spurt of come without complaint.

It took much longer than Sam would have expected to come down, which made him think that this really might have been the very best orgasm he'd ever had. Even after the flow had ebbed and he'd softened completely, though, Dean kept sucking gently on him. As if to make sure that he really was done. When he finally pulled off, his pupils were dilated and he looked satisfied. Sam was relieved to realize that he'd finished, too.

"How was that?" he asked softly, using both hands to tuck Sam back into his boxers. He didn't bother to zip up his slacks, though.

"I love you," Sam answered. He heaved the words out like a sigh, and Dean grinned.

"You might want to save that until later," he said. "This is only our first date, after all." He got slowly to his feet, shaking on them like a newborn foal. "I'll be right back. I made a mess, and I can't go to sleep without cleaning it up."

"I can - " Sam began, wanting to show Dean at least some of his appreciation. He planted his palms on the cushions of the couch and made to push himself up, grunting, but Dean put a hand on his shoulder and shook his head. He was smirking a little, but nothing about it was cruel.

"You're fine, Sam," he assured. "Don't move. I don't want you to start cramping again."

Very reluctantly, Sam settled back down and let Dean go. He heard water running in the kitchen as he eased himself back and to the side, wedging his body into the corner that the arm and back of the couch made. He knew that it would probably be a bad idea to lay down completely right now, but this was more comfortable than just sitting straight up in the middle of the couch. He pried his shoes off, figuring that Dean wouldn't mind, and placed a hand on his belly with a sigh. It was warm, and he could feel slight, painless movement inside of it as he digested.

Dean came back into the living room, looking tired, but smiled when he saw Sam. Sam watched him wiping the carpet clean, and then his eyes must have slipped shut, because he didn't see him leave in order to throw the wet paper towel in his hand away and he was only vaguely aware of the lights being flicked off. He forced his eyes open again then, seeing the apartment lit only by the glow from the city and from the few visible stars. Dean was standing in front of the couch, upper body illuminated, and Sam kept his eyes on him as he shrugged his suspenders off of his shoulders and unbuttoned his shirt. He shrugged that off, too, and tossed it over the opposite arm of the couch before peeling off his socks.

His torso was glistening with a sheen of sweat, but that made sense, since he'd been the one doing all of the work for most of the night. Freckles were splashed across his chest and shoulders, dark against his pale skin. Sam smirked as he caught sight of his nipples. His chest was hairless, but Dean did strike him as the type of guy to either shave or wax, and there was a neatly-trimmed line of dark blond hair running down from his navel.

He was also covered with scars. Chest, shoulders, stomach, back, arms. Flat, silvery, probably pretty difficult to see in ordinary light. Sam wouldn't be surprised to learn that he'd been rubbing some kind of ointment on them in order to make them fade.

Sam could easily believe that almost all of Dean's scars had come from working with sharp tools and car parts, from playing in the scrapyard that he'd said his parents owned, even just from growing up as a boy - a mechanic's son - in South Dakota. But there was one on the inside of his left forearm, halfway down, a neat, raised line. Sam lost sight of it as Dean sat down and snuggled up against him, but he found it with his fingertips, holding onto the arm and rubbing his thumb slowly over the scar that was identical to his own. Dean looked at him, green eyes catching and reflecting what little light there was here.

"I don't remember how I got that one," he whispered. "I'm not sure you really remember how you got yours, either."

Sam tried to call up the memory. He couldn't. With how many times that scar had obviously been opened, he should know exactly what he'd done to himself, but he didn't, and that felt wrong. It was like he had a hole in his memory. Dean must be thinking exactly the same thing.

He was so tired right now. He closed his eyes as Dean held him, and it was like he'd known these arms and their owner for his entire life.


End file.
